THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


STEPPING    HEAVENWARD. 


ir 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 


MRS.    E.    PRENTISS, 


AUTHOR    OF    THB    "  FLOWER    OF    THK    FAMILY,"   THB    "SUSY    BOOKS/'    "  LJTTUI 

LOU^S    SAYINGS    AND    DOINGS,"    THB    "  HOMB    AT    GRBYLOCK," 

"UKBANK    AND    HIS    FRIENDS,"    ETC.,    ETC 


New  Stereotype  Edition,  vnth  a  Sketch  of  the  Author. 


NEW  YORK: 
ANSON  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  COMPANY, 

38  WEST  TWENTY-THIRD  STREET. 


LIBRARY 

.     01 

DAVIS 


Copyright,  itto, 
Bv  Axflox  D.  F.  RAITOOLFH  ft  COMFAXV 


ROBERT  RUTTBA, 

Binder^ 
-f>  and  1 18  East  i4th  Su«et 


INTBODUCTOEY  NOTE. 


\The  present  edition  of  "Stepping  Heavenward"  is  printed 
from  new  stereotype  plates.  The  publishers  have  thought  that  its 
value  would  be  further  enhanced  by  a  brief  notice  of  the  author; 
and  at  their  request  the  following  sketch  has  been  prepared.] 

ELIZABETH  PRENTISS  was  born  at  Portland,  Me.,  on  the 
26th  of  October,  1818,  and  died,  after  a  brief  illness, 
at  Dorset,  Vt.,  on  the  13th  of  August,  1878.  She  was 
the  youngest  daughter  of  the  Eev.  Edward  Payson, 
D.D.,  a  very  eminent  servant  of  Christ,  whose  praise 
is  still  in  all  the  churches.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  she 
began  to  write  for  the  press : — the  little  volume  entitled 
"  Only  a  Dandelion,"  consisting  chiefly  of  her  early  con 
tributions  to  "  The  Youth's  Companion,"  of  Boston.  The 
works  by  which  she  is  best  known,  are  "  Little  Susy's  Six 
Birthdays,"  with  its  companions,  and  "  Stepping  Heaven 
ward."  The  latter  was  first  published  in  1869.  It  has 
passed  through  many  editions  in  this  country  and  has  had 
a  very  wide  circulation  in  Great  Britain,  Canada  and  Aus 
tralia.  It  was  also  translated  into  French  and  German, 
and  several  editions  of  it  have  been  issued  in  those  lan 
guages.  Last  year  it  appeared  at  Leipsic  in  Tauch- 
nitz's  "Collection  of  British  Authors."  Among  Mrs. 
Prentiss's  other  works,  which  have  been  widely  circu 
lated  both  at  home  and  abroad,  are  "  The  Flower  of  the 


iv  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

Family,"  "Little  Lou's  Sayings  and  Doings,"  "Henry 
and  Bessie,"  "  Fred  and  Maria  and  Me,"  "  The  Percys," 
"  Nidworth  and  His  Three  Magic  Wands,"  "  The  Story 
Lizzie  Told,"  "The  Home  at  Greylock,"  "Aunt  Jane's 
Hero,"  "Urbane  and  His  Friends,"  "Pemaquid,"  and 
"Golden  Hours;  or,  Hymns  and  Songs  of  the  Christian 
Life."  The  aim  of  her  writings,  whether  designed  for 
young  or  old,  is  to  incite  to  patience,  fidelity,  hope  and 
all  goodness  by  showing  how  trust  in  God  and  loving 
obedience  to  His  blessed  will  brighten  the  darkest  paths 
and  make  a  heaven  upon  earth. 

Of  her  religious  character  the  key-note  is  struck  in 
her  own  hymn,  "More  love  to  Thee,  O  Christ"  That 
was  her  ruling  passion  in  life  and  in  death.  Writing  to 
a  young  friend  from  Dorset,  in  1873,  she  says  :  "  To  love 
Christ  more — this  is  the  deepest  need,  the  constant  cry 
of  my  souL  Down  in  the  bowling-alley,  and  out  in  the 
woods,  and  on  my  bed,  and  out  driving,  when  I  am  happy 
and  busy,  and  when  I  am  sad  and  idle,  the  whisper  keeps 
going  up  for  more  love,  more  love,  more  love  ! " 

The  following  recollections  of  her  by  Mrs.  Mary  H.  B. 
Field,  now  of  San  Jose,  California,  may  fitly  complete  this 
sketch. 

It  was  the  first  Sunday  in  September,  1866 — a  quiet, 
perfect  day  among  the  green  hills  of  Vermont — a  sac 
ramental  Sabbath — and  we  had  come  seven  miles  over 
the  mountain  to  go  up  to  the  house  of  the  Lord.  I  had 
brought  my  little  two-months-old  baby  in  my  arms,  in 
tending  to  leave  her  during  the  service  at  our  brother's 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  v 

home,  which  was  near  the  church.  I  knew  that  Mra 
Prentiss  was  a  "  summer  boarder  "  in  this  home,  that  she 
was  the  wife  of  a  distinguished  clergyman,  and  a  literary 
woman  of  decided  ability;  but  it  was  before  the  "  Step 
ping  Heavenward  "  epoch  of  her  life,  and  I  had  no  very 
deep  interest  in  the  prospect  of  meeting  her.  We  went 
in  at  the  hospitably  open  door,  and  meeting  no  one,  sat 
down  in  the  pleasant  family  living-room.  It  was  about 
noon,  and  we  could  hear  cheerful  voices  talking  over  the 
lunch-table  in  the  dining-room.  Presently  the  door 
opened,  and  a  slight,  delicate-featured  woman,  with  beau 
tiful  large  dark  eyes,  came  with  rapid  step  into  the  room, 
going  across  to  a  hall  door;  but  her  quick  eye  caught  a 
glimpse  of  my  little  "bundle  of  flannel,"  and  not  paus 
ing  for  an  introduction  or  word  of  preparatory  speech, 
she  came  towards  me  with  a  beaming  face  and  out 
stretched  hands: — 

"  O,  have  you  a  baby  there  ?  How  delightful !  I 
haven't  seen  one  for  such  an  age !  Please,  may  I  take 
it  ?  The  darling  tiny  creature  ! — a  girl  ?  How  lovely ! " 

She  took  the  baby  tenderly  in  her  arms  and  went  on 
in  her  eager,  quick,  informal  way,  but  with  a  bright  little 
blush  and  smile, — "I'm  not  very  polite — pray,  let  me 
introduce  myself!  I'm  Mrs.  Prentiss,  and  you  are  Mrs. 
Field,  I  know." 

After  a  little  more  sweet,  motherly  comment  and  ques 
tion  over  the  baby, — "  a  touch  of  nature  "  which  at  once 
made  us  "akin," — she  asked,  "Have  you  brought  the 
baby  to  be  christened  ?  " 

I  said,  No,  I  thought  it  would  be  better  to  wait  till  she 
was  a  little  older. 

"  O,  no  1 "  she  pleaded,  "  do  let  us  take  her  over  to  the 
church  now.  The  younger  the  better,  I  think;  it  is  so 
uncertain  about  our  keeping  such  treasures." 


vi  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

I  still  objected  that  I  had  not  dressed  the  little  one  foi 
BO  public  an  occasion. 

"  O,  never  mind  about  that,"  she  said.     "  She  is  really 
lovelier  in  this  simple  fashion  than  to  be  loaded  with 
lace  and  embroidery."    Then,  her  sweet  face  grou 
more  earnest, — "There  will  be  more  of  us  here  to-u..y 
than  at  the  next  Communion — more  of  us  to  pray  for  her." 

The  little  lamb  was  taken  into  the  fold  that  day,  and 
I  was  Mrs.  Prentiss's  warm  friend  for  evermore.  Her 
whole  beautiful  character  had  revealed  itself  to  me  in 
fchat  little  interview, — the  quick  perception,  the  wholly 
frank,  unconventional  manner,  the  sweet  motherliness, 
the  cordial  interest  in  even  a  stranger,  the  fervent  piety 
which  could  not  bear  delay  in  duty,  and  even  the  quaint, 
original,  forcible  thought  and  way  of  expressing  it, — 
"  There'll  be  more  of  us  here  to  pray  for  her  to-day." 

For  seven  successive  summers  I  saw  more  or  less 
of  her  in  this  "Earthly  Paradise,"  as  she  used  to  call 
it,  and  once  I  visited  her  in  her  city  home.  I  have 
been  favored  with  many  of  her  sparkling,  vivacious 
letters,  and  have  read  and  re-read  all  her  published 
writings;  but  that  first  meeting  held  in  it  for  me  the 
key-note  of  all  her  wonderfully  beautiful  and  symmet 
rical  character. 

She  brought  to  that  little  hamlet  among  the  hills  a 
sweet  and  wholesome  and  powerful  influence.  While 
her  time  was  too  valuable  to  be  wasted  in  a  general 
sociability,  she  yet  found  leisure  for  an  extensive  ac 
quaintance,  for  a  kindly  interest  in  all  her  neighbors,  and 
for  Christian  work  of  many  kinds.  Probably  the  weekly 
meeting  for  Bible-reading  and  prayer,  which  ahe  con 
ducted,  was  her  closest  link  with  the  women  of  Dorset : 
but  these  meetings  were  established  after  I  had  bidden 
good-bye  to  the  dear  old  town,  and  I  leave  others  to  tell 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  vD 

how  their  "  hearts  burned  within  them  as  she  opened  to 
them  the  Scriptures." 

She  had  in  a  remarkable  degree  the  lovely  feminine 
gift  of  home-making.  She  was  a  true  decorative  artist. 
Her  room  when  she  was  boarding,  and  her  home  after  it 
was  completed,  were  bowers  of  beauty.  Every  walk  over 
hill  and  dale,  every  ramble  by  brookside  or  through 
wildwood,  gave  to  her  some  fresh  home-adornment 
Some  shy  wild-flower  or  fern,  or  brilliant  tinted  leaf,  a 
b^t  of  moss,  a  curious  lichen,  a  deserted  bird's  nest,  a 
strange  fragment  of  rock,  a  shining  pebble,  would  catch 
her  passing  glance  and  reveal  to  her  quick  artistic  sense 
possibilities  of  use  which  were  quaint,  original,  charac 
teristic.  One  saw  from  afar  that  hers  was  a  poet's  home; 
and,  if  permitted  to  enter  its  gracious  portals,  the  first 
impression  deepened  into  certainty.  There  was  as  strong 
an  individuality  about  her  home,  and  especially  about 
her  own  little  study,  as  there  was  about  herself  and  her 
writings.  A  cheerful,  sunny,  hospitable  Christian  home ! 
Far  and  wide  its  potent  influences  reached,  and  it  was  a 
beautiful  thing  to  see  how  many  another  homo,  humble 
or  stately,  grew  emulous  and  blossomed  into  a  new 
loveliness. 

Mrs.  Prentiss  was  naturally  a  shy  and  reserved  wo 
man,  and  necessarily  a  pre-occupied  one.  Therefore  she 
was  sometimes  misunderstood.  But  those  who  knew 
her  best,  and  were  blest  with  her  rare  intimacy,  knew 
her  as  "a  perfect  woman  nobly  planned."  Her  conver 
sation  was  charming.  Her  close  study  of  nature  taught 
her  a  thousand  happy  symbols  and  illustrations,  which 
made  both  what  she  said  and  wrote  a  mosaic  of  exquisite 
comparisons.  Her  studies  of  character  were  equally 
constant  and  penetrating.  Nothing  escaped  her;  nc 
peculiarity  of  mind  or  manner  failed  of  her  quick  obser- 


vlii  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

vation,  but  it  was  always  a  kindly  interest.  She  did  not 
ridicule  that  which  was  simply  ignorance  or  weakness, 
and  she  saw  with  keen  pleasure  all  that  was  quaint, 
original  or  strong,  even  when  it  was  hidden  beneath  the 
homeliest  garb.  She  had  the  true  artist's  liking  for  that 
which  was  simple  and  genre.  The  common  things  of 
common  life  appealed  to  her  sympathies  and  called  out 
all  her  attention.  It  was  a  real,  hearty  interest,  too, — 
nut  feigned,  even  in  a  sense  generally  thought  praise 
worthy.  Indeed,  no  one  ever  had  a  more  intense  scorn 
of  every  sort  of  feigning.  She  was  honest,  truthful, 
genuine  to  the  highest  degree.  It  may  have  sometimes 
led  her  into  seeming  lack  of  courtesy,  but  even  this  was 
a  failing  which  "  leaned  to  virtue's  side."  I  chanced  to 
know  of  her  once  calling  with  a  friend  on  a  country 
neighbor,  and  finding  the  good  housewife  busy  over  a 
rag-carpet,  Mrs.  Prentiss,  who  had  never  seen  one  oi 
these  bits  of  rural  manufacture  in  its  elementary  pro 
cesses,  was  full  of  questions  and  interest,  thereby  quite 
evidently  pleasing  the  unassuming  artist  in  assorted 
rags  and  home-made  dyes.  When  the  visitors  were 
safely  outside  the  door,  Mrs.  Prentiss's  friend  turned  to 
her  with  the  exclamation,  "What  tact  you  havel  She 
really  thought  you  were  interested  in  her  work !  "  The 
quick  blood  sprang  into  Mrs.  Prentiss's  face,  and  she 
turned  upon  her  friend  a  look  of  amazement  and  rebuke. 
"  Tact  I "  she  said,  "  I  despise  such  tact  1  Do  you  think 
/  would  look  or  act  a  lie  f  " 

She  was  an  exceedingly  practical  woman,  not  a  dreamer. 
A  systematic,  thorough  housekeeper,  with  as  exalted  ideals 
in  all  the  affairs  which  pertain  to  good  housewifery  as  in 
those  matters  which  are  generally  thought  to  transcend 
these  humble  occupations.  Like  Solomon's  virtuous  wo 
man  she  "  looked  well  after  the  ways  of  her  household." 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  ix 

Methodical,  carefol  of  minutes,  simple  in  her  tables, 
abstemious,  and  therefore  enjoying  evenly  good  health 
in  spite  of  her  delicate  constitution, — this  is  the  se 
cret  of  her  accomplishing  so  much.  Yet  all  this  foun 
dation  of  exactness  and  diligence  was  so  "  rounded  with 
leafy  gracefulness"  that  she  never  seemed  angular  or 
unyielding.  • 

With  her  children  she  was  a  model  disciplinarian,  ex 
ceedingly  strict,  a  wise  law-maker;  yet  withal  a  tender, 
devoted,  self-sacrificing  mother.  I  have  never  seen  such 
exact  obedience  required  and  given,  or  a  more  idolized 
mother.  "  Mamma's  "  word  was  indeed  law,  but — 0  hap 
py  combination ! — it  was  also  gospel. 

How  warm  and  true  her  friendship  was !  How  little 
of  selfishness  in  all  her  intercourse  with  other  women! 
How  well  she  loved  to  be  of  service  to  her  friends  I  How 
anxious  that  each  should  reach  her  highest  possibilities 
of  attainment !  I  record  with  deepest  sense  of  obligation 
the  cordial,  generous,  sympathetic  assistance  of  many 
kinds  extended  by  her  to  me  during  our  whole  acquaint 
ance.  To  every  earnest  worker  in  any  field  she  gladly 
"  lent  a  hand,"  rejoicing  in  all  the  successes  of  others  as 
if  they  were  her  own. 

But  if  weakness,  or  trouble,  or  sorrow  of  any  sort  or 
degree  overtook  one  she  straightway  became  as  one 
of  God's  own  ministering  spirits — an  angel  of  strength 
and  consolation.  Always  more  eager,  however,  that  souls 
should  grow  than  that  pain  should  cease.  Volumes  could  be 
made  of  her  letters  to  friends  in  sorrow.  One  ten  del 
monotone  steals  through  them  all, — 

44  Gome  nnto  me,  my  kindred,  I  enfold  yon 
In  an  embrace  to  sufferers  only  known; 
Close  to  this  heart  I  tenderly  will  hold  you, 
Suppress  no  sigh,  keep  back  no  tear,  no  moan. 


x  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

'  Thou  Man  of  Sorrows,  teach  my  lips  that  often 

Have  told  the  sacred  story  of  my  woe, 
To  speak  of  Thee  till  stony  griefs  I  soften, 

Till  hearts  that  know  Thee  not  learn  Thee  to  know 

"  Till  peace  takes  place  of  storm  and  agitation, 

Till  lying  on  the  current  of  Thy  will 
There  shall  be  glorying  in  tribulation, 
And  Christ  Himself  each  empty  heart  shall  filL" 

Few  have  the  gift  or  the  courage  to  deal  faithfully  yet 
lovingly  with  an  erring  soul,  but  she  did  not  shrink  back 
even  from  this  service  to  those  she  loved.  I  can  bear 
witness  to  the  wisdom,  penetration,  skill  and  fidelity  with 
which  she  probed  a  terribly  wounded  spirit,  and  then 
Baid  with  tender  solemnity,  "  /  think  you  need  a  great  deal 
of  good  praying" 

O,  "  vanished  hand,"  still  beckon  to  us  from  the  Eternal 
Heights !  O,  "  voice  that  is  still,"  speak  to  us  yet  from 
the  Shining  Shore  I 

"Still  let  thy  mild  rebuking  stand 

Between  us  and  the  wrong, 
And  thy  dear  memory  serve  to  make 
Our  faith  in  goodness  strong." 

G.  L.  P. 

VBW  You,  OOTOBKB  26,  1880. 


STEPPING    WESTWARD. 

While  my  follow  traveller  and  I  were  walking  by  the  iide  ^ 
Loch  Katrine,  one  fine  evening  after  sunset,  in  our  road  to  a 
hut  where,  in  the  course  of  our  tour,  we  had  been  hospitably 
entertained  some  weeks  before,  we  met,  in  one  of  the  loneliest 
parts  of  that  solitary  region,  two  well-dressed  women,  one  oi 
whom  said  to  as  by  way  of  greeting,  "What,  you  are  stepping 
westward?" 

"What,  you  are  stepping  leestward?"    "F«L" 

— 'Twould  be  a  wildish  destiny, 

If  we,  who  thus  together  roam 

In  a  strange  land,  and  far  from  home, 

Were  in  this  place  the  guests  of  chance: 

Tet  who  would  stop,  or  fear  to  advance, 

Though  home  or  shelter  he  had  none, 

With  such  a  sky  to  lead  him  on? 

The  dewy  ground  was  dark  and  cold; 

Behind,  all  gloomy  to  behold: 

And  stepping  westward  seemed  to  be 

A  kind  of  heavenly  destiny: 

I  liked  the  greeting;  'twas  a  sound 

Of  something  without  place  and  bound: 

And  seemed  to  give  me  spiritual  right 

To  travel  through  that  region  bright 


STEPPING  WESTWARD. 

The  voice  was  soft,  and  she  who  spake 

Was  walking  by  her  native  lake: 

The  salutation  had  to  me 

The  very  sound  of  courtesy: 

Its  power  was  felt;  and  while  my  eye 

Was  fixed  upon  the  glowing  sky, 

The  echo  of  the  voice  enwrought 

A  human  sweetness  with  the  thought 

Of  travelling  through  the  world  that  lay 

Before  me  in  my  endless  way. — TFbrd*t00r0l 


"Faint  not;  the  miles  to  heaven  are  but  few  and  short."— 

RUTHERFORD. 


"How  shall  I  do  to  love?    Believe.    How  shall  I  do  to  be 
lieve  ?    Love." — LZIOHTON. 


•'Always  add,  always  walk,  always  proceed;  neither  stand  still, 
nor  go  back,  nor  deviate;  he  that  standeth  still  proceedeth  not; 
he  goeth  back  that  continueth  not;  he  deviate th  that  revolteth; 
he  goeth  better  that  creepeth  in  his  way  than  he  that  movetb 
ont  of  his  way." — AUGUSTINE. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 


I. 

• 
JANUABT  15,  1831. 

OW  dreadfully  old  I  am  getting !  Sixteen  1 
Well,  I  don't  see  as  I  can  help  it  There 
it  is  in  the  big  Bible  in  father's  own  hand ; 

"Katherine,  born  Jan.  15,  1815." 

I  meant  to  get  up  early  this  morning,  but  it 
looked  dismally  cold  out  of  doors,  and  felt  delight 
fully  warm  in  bed.  So  I  covered  myself  up,  and 
made  ever  so  many  good  resolutions. 

I  determined,  in  the  first  place,  to  begin  this 
Journal.  To  be  sure,  I  have  begun  half  a  dozen, 
and  got  tired  of  them  after  a  while.  Not  tired  of 
writing  them,  but  disgusted  with  what  I  had  to 
say  of  myself.  But  this  time  I  mean  to  go  on,  in 
spite  of  everything.  It  will  do  me  good  to  read  it 
over,  and  see  what  a  creature  I  am. 

Then  I  resolved  to  do  more  to  please  mother 
than  I  have  done. 

to  make  one  more  effort  to 


8  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

conquer  my  hasty  temper.  I  thought,  too,  I  would 
be  sell-denying  this  winter,  like  the  people  one 
reads  about  in  books.  I  fancied  how  surprised  and 
pleased  everybody  would  be  to  see  me  so  much 
improved  I 

Time  passed  quickly  amid  these  agreeable 
thoughts,  and  I  was  quite  startled  to  hear  the 
bell  ring  for  prayers.  I  jumped  up  in  a  great 
flurry,  and'  dressed  as  quickly  as  I  could.  Every 
thing  conspired  together  to  plague  me.  I  could  not 
find  a  clean  collar,  or  a  handkerchief.  It  is  always 
just  so.  Susan  is  forever  poking  my  things  into 
out-of-the-way  places!  When  at  last  I  went  down, 
they  were  all  at  breakfast. 

"I  hoped  you  would  celebrate  your  birthday, 
dear,  by  coming  down  in  good  season,"  said  mother. 

I  do  hate  to  be  found  fault  with,  so  I  fired  up  in 
an  instant. 

"If  people  hide  my  things  so  that  I  can't  find 
them,  of  course  I  have  to  be  late,"  I  said.  And  I 
rather  think  I  said  it  in  a  very  cross  way,  foi 
mother  sighed  a  little.  I  wish  mother  wouldn't 
sigh.  I  would  rather  be  called  names  out  and 
out 

The  moment  breakfast  was  over  I  had  to  hurry 
off  to  school.  Just  as  I  was  going  out  mother 
said, 

"  Have  you  your  overshoes,  dear  ?  n 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  ft 

"Oh,  mother,  don't  hinder  me!  I  shall  be  late," 
I  said.  "I  don't  need  overshoes." 

"It  snowed  all  night  and  I  think  you  do  need 
them,"  mother  said. 

"I  don't  know  where  they  are.  I  hate  overshoes. 
Do  let  me  go,  mother,"  I  cried.  "  I  do  wish  I  could 
ever  have  my  own  way." 

"You  shall  have  it  now,  my  child,"  mother  said, 
and  went  away. 

Now  what  was  the  use  of  her  calling  me  "  my 
child  "  in  such  a  tone,  I  should  like  to  know. 

I  hurried  off,  and  just  as  I  got  to  the  door  of 
the  school-room  it  flashed  into  my  mind  that  I  had 
not  said  my  prayers!  A  nice  way  to  begin  on 
one's  birthday  to  be  sure!  Well,  I  had  not  time. 
And  perhaps  my  good  resolutions  pleased  God 
almost  as  much  as  one  of  my  rambling  stupid 
prayers  could.  For  I  must  own  I  can't  make  good 
prayers.  I  can't  think  of  anything  to  say.  I  often 
wonder  what  mother  finds  to  say  when  she  is  shut  up 
by  the  hour  together. 

I  had  a  pretty  good  time  at  school.  My  teachers 
praised  me,  and  Amelia  seemed  so  fond  of  me! 
She  brought  me  a  birthday  present  of  a  purse  that 
she  had  knit  for  me  herself,  and  a  net  for  my  hair. 
Nets  are  just  coming  into  fashion.  It  will  save  a 
good  deal  of  time  my  having  this  one.  Instead  of 
combing  and  combing  and  combing  my  old  hair  to 


10  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

get  it  glossy  enough  to  suit  mother,  I  can  just  give 
it  one  twist  and  one  squeeze,  and  the  whole  thing 
will  be  settled  for  the  day. 

Amelia  wrote  me  a  dear  little  note,  with  her  pre 
sents.  I  do  really  believe  she  loves  me  dearly.  It 
is  so  nice  to  have  people  love  you! 

When  I  got  home  mother  called  me  into  her 
room.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  been  crying.  She 
said  I  gave  her  a  great  deal  of  pain  by  my  self-will 
and  ill  temper  and  conceit. 

"  Conceit !  "  I  screamed  out.  "  Oh  mother,  if  you 
only  knew  how  horrid  I  think  I  am ! " 

Mother  smiled  a  little.  Then  she  went  on  with 
her  list  till  she  made  me  out  the  worst  creature  in 
the  world.  I  burst  out  crying,  and  was  running  off 
to  my  room,  but  she  made  me  come  back  and  heai* 
the  rest.  She  said  ray  character  would  be  essen 
tially  formed  by  the  time  I  reached  my  twentieth 
year,  and  left  it  to  me  to  say  if  I  wished  to  be  as  a 
woman  what  I  was  now  as  a  girl?  I  felt  sulky, 
and  would  not  answer.  I  was  shocked  to  think  I 
had  got  only  four  years  in  which  to  improve,  but 
after  all  a  good  deal  could  be  done  in  that  time.  Of 
course  I  don't  want  to  be  always  exactly  what  I  am 
now. 

Mother  went  on  to  say  that  I  had  in  me  the  ele 
ments  of  a  fine  character  if  I  would  only  conquer 
some  of  my  faults.  "You  are  frank  and  truthful,'' 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  11 

she  said,  "  and  in  some  things  conscientious.  I 
hope  you  are  really  a  child  of  God,  and  are  trying 
to  please  Him  And  it  is  my  daily  prayer  that  yon 
may  become  a  lovely,  loving,  useful  woman." 

I  made  no  answer.  I  wanted  to  say  something, 
hut  my  tongue  wouldn't  move.  I  was  angry  with 
mother,  and  angry  with  myself.  At  last  everything 
came  out  all  in  a  rush,  mixed  up  with  such  floods 
of  tears  that  I  thought  mother's  heart  would  melt, 
and  that  she  would  take  back  what  she  had  said. 

"Amelia's  mother  never  talks  so  to  her!"  I  said. 
"  She  praises  her,  and  tells  her  what  a  comfort  she 
is  to  her.  But  just  as  I  am  trying  as  hard  as  I  can 
to  be  good,  and  making  resolutions,  and  all  that, 
you  scold  me  and  discourage  me ! " 

Mother's  voice  was  very  soft  and  gentle  as  she 
asked, 

"Do  you  call  this  *  scolding/  my  child  T* 

"And  I  don't  like  to  be  called  conceited,"  I  went 
on.  "  I  know  I  am  perfectly  horrid,  and  I  am  just 
as  unhappy  as  I  can  be." 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  dear,"  mother  replied. 
'But  you  must  bear  with  me.  Other  people  will 
seo  your  faults,  but  only  your  mother  will  have  the 
courage  to  speak  of  them,  frow  go  to  your  own 
room,  and  wipe  away  the  traces  of  your  tears  that 
the  rest  of  the  family  may  not  know  that  you  have 
been  crying  on  your  birthday."  She  kissed  me 


12  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

but  I  did  not  kiss  her.  I  really  believe  Satan  him 
self  hindered  me.  I  ran  across  the  hall  to  my  room, 
slammed  the  door,  and  locked  myself  in.  1  was 
going  to  throw  myself  on  the  bed  and  cry  till  I  was 
sick.  Then  I  should  look  pale  and  tired,  and  they 
would  all  pity  me.  I  do  like  so  to  be  pitied !  But 
on  the  table,  by  the  window,  I  saw  a  beautiful  neAV 
desk  in  place  of  the  old  clumsy  thing  I  had  been 
spattering  and  spoiling  so  many  years.  A  little 
note,  full  of  love,  said  it  was  from  mother,  and  beg 
ged  me  to  read  and  reflect  upon  a  few  verses  of  a 
tastefully  bound  copy  of  tho  Bible  which  accompa 
nied  it  every  day  of  my  life.  "  A  few  verses,"  she 
said,  "  carefully  read  and  pondered,  instead  of  a  chap 
ter  or  two  read  for  mere  form's  sake.*'  I  looked  at 
my  desk,  which  contained  exactly  what  I  wanted, 
plenty  of  paper,  seals,  wax  and  pens.  I  always  use 
wax.  Wafers  are  vulgar.  Then  I  opened  the  Bi 
ble  at  random,  and  lighted  on  these  words: 

44  Watch,  therefore,  for  ye  know  not  what  hour 
your  Lord  doth  come."  There  was  nothing  very 
cheering  in  that.  I  felt  a  real  repugnance  to  be  al 
ways  on  the  watch,  thinking  I  might  die  at  any  mo 
ment.  I  am  sure  I  am  not  fit  to  die.  Besides  1 
want  to  have  a  good  time,  with  nothing  to  worry 
me.  I  hope  I  shall  live  ever  so  long.  Perhaps  in 
the  course  of  forty  or  fifty  years  I  may  get  tired 
of  this  world  and  want  to  leave  it  And  I  hope  by 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  15 

that  time,  1  shall  be  a  great  deal  better  than  I  am 
now,  and  fit  to  go  to  heaven. 

I  wrote  a  note  to  mother  on  my  new  desk,  and 
thanked  her  for  it.  I  told  her  she  was  the  best 
mother  in  the  world,  and  that  I  was  the  worst 
daughter.  When  it  was  done  I  did  not  like  it,  and 
so  I  wrote  another.  Then  I  went  down  to  dinner 
and  felt  better.  We  had  such  a  nice  dinner! 
Everything  I  liked  best  was  on  the  table.  Mother 
had  not  forgotten  one  of  all  the  dainties  I  like.  Ame 
lia  was  there  too.  Mother  had  invited  her  to  give 
me  a  little  surprise.  It  is  bedtime  now,  and  I  must 
say  my  prayers,  and  go  to  bed.  I  have  got  all 
chilled  through,  writing  here  in  the  cold.  I  believe 
I  will  say  my  prayers  in  bed,  just  for  this  once.  I 
do  not  feel  sleepy,  but  I  am  sure  I  ought  not  to  sit 
up  another  moment 

JAN.  30. —  Here  I  am  at  my  desk  once  more. 

There  is  a  fire  in  my  room,  and  mother  is  sitting  by 
it,  reading.  I  cau't  see  what  book  it  is,  but  I  have  no 
doubt  it  is  Thomas  a  Kempis.  How  she  can  go  on 
reading  it  so  year  after  year,  I  cannot  imagine.  For 
my  part  I  like  something  new.  But  I  must  go  back 
to  where  I  left  off. 

That  night  when  I  stopped  writing,  I  hurried  to 
bed  as  fast  as  I  could,  for  I  felt  cold  and  tired.  J 
remember  saying.  Oh,  God,  I  am  ashamed  to 


U  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

pray,"  and  then  I  began  to  think  of  all  the  things 
that  had  happened  that  day,  and  never  knew 
another  thing  till  the  rising  bell  rang  and  I  found  it 
was  morning.  I  am  sure  I  did  not  mean  to  go  to 
sleep.  I  think  now  it  was  wrong  for  me  to  be  such 
a  coward  as  to  try  to  say  my  prayers  in  bed  be 
cause  of  the  cold.  While  I  was  writing  I  did  not 
once  think  how  I  felt.  Well,  I  jumped  up  as  soon 
as  I  heard  the  bell,  but  found  I  had  a  dreadful  pain 
in  my  side,  and  a  cough.  Susan  says  I  coughed  all 
night.  I  remembered  then  that  I  had  just  such  a 
cough  and  just  such  a  pain  the  last  time  I  walked 
in  the  snow  without  overshoes.  I  crept  back  to 
bed  feeling  about  as  mean  as  I  could.  Mother  sent 
up  to  know  why  I  did  not  come  down,  and  I  had 
to  own  that  I  was  sick  She  came  up  directly 
looking  so  anxious !  And  here  I  have  been  shut 
up  ever  since;  only  to-day  I  am  sitting  up  a  little. 
Poor  mother  has  had  trouble  enough  with  me;  I 
know  I  have  been  cross  and  unreasonable,  and  it 
was  all  my  own  fault  that  I  was  ill  Another  time 
1  will  do  as  mother  says. 

JAS.  31. — How  easy  it  is  to  make  good  resolu 
tions,  and  how  easy  it  is  to  break  them  I  Just  as  I 
had  got  so  far,  yesterday,  mother  spoke  for  the 
third  time  about  my  exerting  myself  so  much. 
And  just  at  that  moment  I  fainted  away,  and  she 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  15 

had  a  gieat  time  all  alone  there  with  ine.  1  did  not 
realize  how  long  I  had  been  writing,  nor  how  weak 
I  was.  I  do  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  really  learn  that 
mother  knows  more  than  I  do ! 

FEB.  17. — It  is  more  than  a  month  since  I  took 

that  cold,  and  here  I  still  am,  shut  up  in  the  house. 
To  be  sure  the  doctor  lets  me  go  down  stairs,  but 
then  he  won't  listen  to  a  word  about  school.  Oh, 
dear !  All  the  girls  will  get  ahead  of  me. 

This  is  Sunday,  arid  everybody  has  gone  to 
church.  I  thought  I  ought  to  make  a  good  use  of 
the  time  while  they  were  gone,  so  I  took  the  Me 
moir  of  Henry  Martyn,  and  read  a  little  in  that. 

I  am  afraid  I  am  not  much  like  him.  Then  I 
knelt  down  and  tried  to  pray.  But  my  mind  was 
full  of  all  sorts  of  things,  so  I  thought  I  would 
wait  till  I  was  in  a  better  frame.  At  noon  I  dis 
puted  with  James  about  the  name  of  an  apple.  He 
was  very  provoking,  and  said  he  was  thankful  he  had 
not  got  such  a  temper  as  I  had.  I  cried,  and  mo 
ther  reproved  him  for  teasing  me,  saying  my  illness 
had  left  me  nervous  and  irritable.  James  replied 
that  it  had  left  me  where  it  found  me,  then.  I  cried 
a  good  while,  lying  on  the  sofa,  and  then  I  foil 
asleep.  I  don't  see  as  I  am  any  the  better  for  thib 
Sunday,  it  has  only  made  me  feel  unhappy  and  out 


16  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

of  sorta  I  am  sure  I  pray  to  God  to  make  me  bet 
ter,  and  why  don't  He? 

FEB.  20. — It  has  been  quite  a  mild  day  for  the 

season  and  the  doctor  said  I  might  drive  out.  J 
enjoyed  getting  the  air  very  much.  I  feel  just  as 
well  as  ever,  and  long  to  get  back  to  school.  I 
think  God  has  been  very  good  to  me  in  making  me 
well  again,  and  wish  I  loved  Him  better.  But,  oh, 
I  am  not  sure  I  do  love  Him !  I  hate  to  own  it  to 
myself,  and  to  write  it  down  here,  but  I  will.  I  do 
not  love  to  pray.  I  am  always  eager  to  get  it  over 
with  and  out  of  the  way  so  as  to  have  leisure  to  en 
joy  myself.  I  mean  that  this  is  usually  so.  This 
morning  I  cried  a  good  deal  while  I  was  on  my 
knees,  and  felt  sorry  for  my  quick  temper  and  all 
my  bad  ways.  If  I  always  felt  so,  perhaps  praying 
would  not  be  such  a  task.  I  wish  I  knew  whether 
anybody  exactly  as  bad  as  I  am  ever  got  to  heaven 
at  last?  I  have  read  ever  so  many  memoirs,  and 
they  were  all  about  people  who  were  too  good  to 
live,  and  so  died;  or  else  went  on  a  mission;  I  am 
not  at  all  like  any  of  them. 

MARCH  26. — I  have  been  so  busy  that  I  have 

not  said  much  to  you,  you  poor  old  journal  you, 
have  1?  Somehow  I  have  been  behaving  quite 
nicely  lately.  Everything  has  gone  on  exactly  to 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.      t  11 

my  mind.  Mother  has  not  found  fault  with  me 
once,  and  father  has  praised  my  drawings  and 
seemed  proud  of  me.  He  says  he  shall  not  tell  me 
what  my  teachers  say  of  me  Ust  it  should  make 
me  vain.  And  once  or  twice  when  he  has  met  me 
singing  and  frisking  about  the  house,  he  has  kissed 
me  and  called  me  his  dear  little  Flibbertigibbet,  if 
that's  the  way  to  spell  it.  When  he  says  that,  I 
know  he  is  very  fond  of  me.  We  are  all  very  happy 
together  when  nothing  goes  wrong.  In  the  long 
evenings  we  all  sit  around  the  table  with  our  books 
and  our  work,  and  one  of  us  reads  aloud.  Mother 
chooses  the  book  and  takes  her  turn  in  reading.  She 
reads  beautifully.  Of  course  the  readings  do  not 
begin  till  the  lessons  are  all  learned.  As  to  me,  my 
lessons  just  take  no  time  at  all.  I  have  only  to 
read  them  over  once,  and  there  they  are.  So  I 
have  a  good  deal  of  time  to  read,  and  I  devour  all 
the  poetry  I  can  get  hold  of.  I  would  rather  read 
"Pollok's  Course  of  Time,"  than  read  nothing  at 
all 

APRIL    2. — There    are    three    of    mother's 

friends  living  near  us,  each  having  lots  of  little 
children.  It  is  perfectly  ridiculous  how  much  those 
creatures  are  sick.  They  send  for  mother  if  so  much 
as  a  pimple  comes  out  on  one  of  their  faces.  When  I 
have  children  I  don't  mean  to  have  such  goings  on 


18  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

I  shall  be  careful  about  what  they  eat,  and  keep  them 
from  getting  cold,  and  they  will  keep  well  of  theii 
own  accord.  Mrs.  Jones  has  just  sent  for  mother 
to  see  her  Tommy.  It  was  so  provoking.  I  had 
coaxed  her  into  letting  me  have  a  black  silk  apron; 
they  are  all  the  fashion  now,  embroidered  in  floss 
silk.  I  had  drawn  a  lovely  vine  for  mine  entirely 
out  of  my  own  head,  and  mother  was  going  to  ar 
range  the  pattern  for  me  when  that  message  came, 
and  she  had  to  go.  I  don't  believe  anything  ails  the 
child !  a  great  chubby  thing ! 

APRIL  3. — Poor  Mrs.  Jones!     Her  dear  little 

Tommy  is  dead !  I  stayed  at  home  from  school  to 
day  and  had  all  the  other  children  here  to  get  them 
out  of  their  mother's  way.  How  dreadfully  she 
must  feel!  Mother  cried  when  she  told  me  how 
the  dear  little  fellow  suffered  in  his  last  moments. 
It  reminded  her  of  my  little  brothers  who  died 
in  the  same  way,  just  before  I  was  born.  Dear 
mother!  I  wonder  I  ever  forget  what  troubles  she 
has  had,  and  am  not  always  sweet  and  loving.  She 
has  gone  now,  where  she  always  goes  when  she 
feels  sad,  straight  to  God.  Of  course  she  did  not 
say  so  but  I  know  mother. 

APRIL  25. — I  have  not  been  down  in  season 

once  this  week.     I  have  persuaded  mother  to  let  me 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  1& 

read  some  of  Scott's  novels,  and  have  sat  up  late 
and  been  sleepy  in  the  morning.  I  wish  I  could  got 
along  with  mothei  as  nicely  as  James  does.  He  is 
late  far  oftener  than  I  am,  but  he  never  gets  into 
euch  scrapes  about  it  as  I  do.  This  is  what  hap 
pens.  He  comes  down  when  it  suits  him. 

Mother  begins. — "James,  I  am  very  much  dis 
pleased  with  you." 

James. — "I  should  think  you  would  be,  mother/ 

Mother,  mollified. — "I  don't  think  you  deserve 
any  breakfast." 

James,  hypocritically. — "No,  I  don't  think  I  do, 
mother." 

Then  mother  hurries  off  and  gets  something 
extra  for  his  breakfast.  Now  let  us  see  how  things 
go  on  when  I  am  late. 

Mother .  — "  Katherine  "  (she  always  calls  me 
Katherine  when  she  is  displeased,  and  spells  it  with 
a  K),  "  Katherine,  you  are  late  again,  how  can  you 
annoy  your  father  so?" 

Katherine. — "Of  course  I  don't  do  it  to  annoy 
father  or  anybody  else.  But  if  I  oversleep  myself, 
it  is  not  my  fault." 

Mother — "I  would  go  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock 
rather  than  be  late  as  often  as  you.  How  should 
you  like  it  if  I  were  not  down  to  prayers?" 

Katherine,  muttering. — "Of  course  that  is  very 
iifferent.  I  don't  see  why  I  should  bo  blamed  for 


20  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

oversleeping  any  more  than  James.  I  get  all  tbe 
scoldings." 

Mother  sighs  and  goes  off. 

I  prowl  round  and  get  what  scraps  of  breakfast 
I  can. 

MAT  12. — The  weather  is  getting  perfectly 

delicious.  I  am  sitting  with  my  window  open,  and 
my  bird  is  singing  with  all  his  heart  I  wish  I  was 
as  gay  as  he  is. 

I  have  been  thinking  lately  that  it  was  about  time 
to  begin  on  some  of  those  pieces  of  self-denial  I  re 
solved  on  upon  my  birthday.  I  could  not  think  of 
anything  great  enough  for  a  long  time.  At  last  an 
idea  popped  into  my  head.  Half  the  girls  at 
school  envy  me  because  Amelia  is  so  fond  of  me; 
and  Jane  Underbill,  in  particular,  is  just  crazy  to 
get  intimate  with  her.  But  I  have  kept  Amelia  all 
to  myself.  To-day  I  said  to  her,  "Amelia,  Jane 
Underbill  admires  you  above  all  things.  I  have  a 
gond  mind  to  let  you  be  as  intimate  with  her  as  you 
are  with  me.  It  will  be  a  great  piece  of  self-denial, 
but  I  think  it  is  my  duty.  She  is  a  stranger,  and  no 
body  seems  to  like  her  much." 

"You  dear  thing  you!"  cried  Amelia  kissing  me. 
"  I .  liked  Jane  Underbill  the  moment  I  saw  her. 
She  has  such  a  sweet  face  and  such  pleasant  man- 
a  ers.  But  you  are  BO  jealous  that  I  never  dared  tc 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  21 

show  how  I  liked  her.  Don't  be  vexed,  dearie;  if 
you  are  jealous  it  is  your  only  fault ! " 

She  then  rushed  off,  and  I  saw  her  kiss  that  girl 
exactly  as  she  kisses  me ! 

This  was  in  recess.  I  went  to  my  desk  and  made 
believe  I  was  studying.  Pretty  soon  Amelia  came 
back 

"She  is  a  sweet  girl,"  she  said,  uand  only  to 
think!  She  writes  poetry!  Just  hear  this!  It  is 
a  little  poem  addressed  to  me.  Isn't  it  nice  of  her  ?  " 

I  pretended  not  to  hear  her.  I  was  as  full  of  all 
sorts  of  horrid  feelings  as  I  could  hold.  It  enraged 
me  to  think  that  Amelia,  after  all  her  professions  of 
love  to  me,  should  snatch  at  the  first  chance  of  get 
ting  a  new  friend.  Then  I  was  mortified  because  1 
was  enraged,  and  I  could  have  torn  myself  to  pieces 
for  being  such  a  fool  as  to  let  Amelia  see  how  silly  I 
was. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you,  Katy,"  she 
said,  putting  her  arms  round  me.  "Have  I  done 
anything  to  vex  you?  Come,  let  us  make  up  and 
be  friends,  whatever  it  is.  I  will  read  you  these 
sweet  verses;  I  am  sure  you  will  like  them." 

She  read  them  in  her  clear,  pleasant  voice. 

"How  can  you  have  the  vanity  to  read  snob 
stuff?"  I  cried. 

Amelia  colored  a  little. 

"You    have  said  and  written  much   more  flatter- 


22  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

ing  things  to  me,"  she  replied.  "Perhaps  it  has 
turned  my  head,  and  made  me  too  ready  to  believe 
what  other  people  say."  She  folded  the  paper,  and 
put  it  into  her  pocket.  We  walked  home  together, 
after  school,  as  usual,  but  neither  of  us  spoke  a 
word.  And  now  here  I  sit,  unhappy  enough.  All 
my  resolutions  fail  But  I  did  not  think  Amelia 
would  take  me  at  my  word,  and  rush  after  that 
stuck-up,  smirking  piece! 

MAT  20. — I  seem  to  have  got  back  into  all 

my  bad  ways  again.     Mother  is  quite  out  of  patience 
with  me.     I  have  not  prayed  for  a  long  time.     It 
does  not  do  any  good. 

MAY  21. — It  seems  this   Underbill   thing  is 

here  for  her  health,  though  she  looks  as  well  as  any 
of  us.     She  is  an  orphan,  and  has  been  adopted  by 
a  rich  old  uncle,  who  makes  a  perfect  fool  of  her. 
Such  dresses  and  such  finery  as  she   wears !     Last 
night  she  had  Amelia  there  to  tea,  without  inviting 
me,  though  she  knows  I  am  her  best  friend.     She 
gave  her  a  bracelet  made  of  her  own  hair.     I  won 
der  Amelia's  mother  lets  her  accept  presents  from 
Btrangers.     My  mother  would  not  let  me.     On   the 
whole,    there    is    nobody    like    one's    own    mother 
Amelia  has  been  cold  and  distant  to  me  of  late,  but 
no  matter  what  I  do  or  say  to  my  darling,  precious 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  23 

mother,  she  is  always  kind  and  loving.  She  noticed 
bow  I  moped  about  to-day,  and  begged  me  to  tell 
her  what  was  the  matter.  I  was  ashamed  to  do 
that.  I  told  her  that  it  was  a  little  quarrel  I  had 
had  with  Amelia. 

"  Dear  child,"  she  said,  "  how  1  pity  you  that  you 
have  inherited  my  quick,  irritable  temper." 

"  Your*,  mother !"  I  cried  out:  "what  can  you 
mean  ?  " 

Mother  smiled  a  little  at«my  surprise. 

"It  is  even  so,"  she  said. 

"Then  how  did  you  cure  yourself  of  it?  Tell 
me  quick,  mother,  and  let  me  cure  myself  of  mine." 

"  My  dear  Katy,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  I  could  make 
you  see  that  God  is  just  as  willing,  and  just  as  able 
to  sanctify,  as  He  is  to  redeem  us.  It  would  save 
you  so  much  weary,  disappointing  work.  But  God 
has  opened  my  eyes  at  last." 

"  I  wish  He  would  open  mine,  then,"  I  said,  "  for 
all  I  see  now  is  that  I  am  just  as  horrid  as  I  can  be, 
and  that  the  more  I  pray  the  worse  I  grow." 

"That  is  not  true,  dear,"  she  replied;  "go  on 
praying — pray  without  ceasing." 

I  sat  pulling  my  handkerchief  this  way  and  that, 
and  at  last  rolled  it  up  into  a  ball  and  threw  it 
across  the  room.  I  wished  I  could  toss  my  bad 
feelings  into  a  corner  with  it. 

"I  do  wish  I  could  make  you  love  to  pray,  my 


24  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

darling  child,"  mother  went  on.  "If  you  only 
knew  the  strength,  and  the  light,  and  the  joy  you 
might  have  for  the  simple  asking.  God  attaches  no 
conditions  to  His  gifts.  He  only  says,  lAskl" 

This  may  be  true,  but  it  is  hard  work  to  pray. 
It,  tires  me.  And  I  do  wish  there  was  some  easy 
way  of  growing  good.  In  fact  I  should  like  to  have 
God  send  a  sweet  temper  to  me  just  as  He  sent 
bread  and  meat  to  Elijah.  I  don't  believe  Elijah 
had  to  kneel  down  and  pray  for  them. 


II. 


AST  Sunday  Dr.  Cabot  preached  to  the 
young.  He  first  addressed  those  who  knew 
they  did  not  love  God.  It  did  not  seem  to 
me  that  I  belonged  to  that  class.  Then  he 
spoke  to  those  who  knew  they  did.  I  felt  sure  I 
was  not  one  of  those.  Last  of  all  he  spoke  affec 
tionately  to  those  who  did  not  know  what  to  think, 
and  1  was  frightened  and  ashamed  to  feel  tears  run 
ning  down  my  cheeks,  when  he  said  that  he  be 
lieved  that  most  of  his  hearers  who  were  in  this 
doubtful  state  did  really  love  their  Master,  only 
their  love  was  something  as  new  and  as  tender  and 
perhaps  as  unobserved  as  the  tiny  point  of  green 
that,  forcing  its  way  through  the  earth,  is  yet  un 
conscious  of  its  own  existence,  but  promises  a  thrifty 
plant.  I  don't  suppose  I  express  it  very  well,  but  I 
know  what  he  meant.  He  then  invited  thohe  be 
longing  to  each  class  to  meet  him  on  three  succes 
sive  Saturday  afternoons.  ]  shall  certainly  go. 
2  (25) 


26  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

JULY  13. — I  went  to  the  meeting,  and  so  did 

Amelia.  A  great  many  young  people  were  there 
and  a  few  children.  Dr.  Cabot  went  about  from 
seat  to  seat,  speaking  to  each  one  separately.  When 
he  came  to  us  I  expected  he  would  say  something 
about  the  way  in  which  I  had  been  brought  up,  and 
reproach  me  for  not  profiting  more  by  the  instruc 
tions  and  example  I  had  at  home.  Instead  of  that 
he  said,  in  a  cheerful  voice, 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  cannot  see  into  your  heart  and 
positively  tell  whether  there  is  love  to  God  there 
or  not.  But  I  suppose  you  have  come  here  to-day 
in  order  to  let  me  help  you  to  find  out  ?  " 

I  said,  "Yes;"  that  was  all  I  could  get  out. 

"Let  me  see,  then,"  he  went  on.  "Do  you  love 
your  mother?" 

I  said  "Yes,"  once  more. 

"But  prove  to  me  that  you  do.  How  do  you 
know  it?" 

I  tried  to  think.     Then  I  said, 

"I/eeZ  that  I  love  her.  I  love  to  love  her,  I  like 
to  be  with  her.  I  like  to  hear  people  praise  her. 
And  I  try — sometimes  at  least — to  do  things  to 
please  her.  But  I  don't  try  half  as  hard  as  I  ought, 
and  I  do  and  say  a  great  many  things  to  displease 
tier." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "I  know." 

"Has  mother  told  you?"  I  cried  out 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  27 

"No,  dear,  no,  indeed.  But  I  know  what  human 
nature  is  after  having  one  of  my  own  fifty  years, 
and  six  of  my  children's  to  encounter." 

Somehow  I  felt  more  courage  after  he  said  that. 

"  In  the  first  place,  then,  you  fed  that  you  love 
your  mother?  But  you  never  feel  that  you  love 
your  God  and  Saviour  ?  " 

"I  often  try,  and  try,  but  I  never  do,"  I  said. 

"Love  won't  be  forced,"  he  said,  quickly. 

"Then  what  shall  I  do?" 

uln  the  second  place,  you  like  to  be  with  your 
mother.  But  you  never  like  to  be  with  the  Friend 
who  loves  you  so  much  better  than  she  does?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  never  was  with  Him.  Some 
times  I  think  that  when  Mary  sat  at  His  feet  and 
heard  Him  talk,  she  must  have  been  very  happy." 

"We  come  to  the  third  test,  then.  You  like  to 
hear  people  praise  your  mother.  And  have  you 
never  rejoiced  to  hear  the  Lord  magnified?" 

I  shook  my  head  sorrowfully  enough. 

"  Let  us  then  try  the  last  test.  You  know  you 
love  your  mother  because  you  try  to  do  things  to 
please  her.  That  is  to  do  what  you  know  she 
wishes  you  to  do?  Very  well.  Have  you  never 
tried  to  do  anything  God  wishes  you  to  do?" 

"Oh  yes;  often.     But  not  so  often  as  I  ought." 

"Of  course  not.  No  one  does  that.  But  come 
now,  why  do  you  try  to  do  what  you  think  wiU 


28  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

pleaso  Him?  Because  it  is  easy?  Because  you 
like  to  do  what  He  likes  rather  than  what  you  like 
yourself?" 

I  tried  to  think,  and  got  puzzled. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Dr.  Cabot,  "I  have  come 
now  to  the  point  I  was  aiming  at.  You  cannot 
prove  to  yourself  that  you  love  God  by  examining 
your  feelings  towards  Him.  They  are  indefinite  and 
they  fluctuate.  But  just  as  far  as  you  obey  Him, 
just  so  far,  depend  upon  it,  you  love  Him.  It  is  not 
natural  to  us  sinful,  ungrateful  human  beings  to 
prefer  His  pleasure  to  our  own,  or  to  follow  His 
way  instead  of  our  own  way,  and  nothing,  nothing  but 
love  to  Him  can  or  does  make  us  obedient  to  Him." 

"  Couldn't  we  obey  Him  from  fear  ? "  Amelia  now 
asked.  She  had  been  listening  all  this  time  in  si 
lence. 

"Yes;  and  so  you  might  obey  your  mother  from 
fear,  but  only  for  a  season.  If  you  had  no  real  love 
for  her,  you  would  gradually  cease  to  dread  her 
displeasure;  whereas  it  is  in  the  very  nature  of  love 
to  grow  stronger  and  more  influential  every  hour.", 

"You  mean,  then,  that  if  we  want  to  know 
whether  we  love  God,  we  must  find  out  whether 
we  are  obeying  Him?"  Amelia  asked. 

"I  mean  exactly  that.  'He  that  keepeth  my 
commandments  he  it  is  that  loveth  me.'  But  I 
cannot  talk  with  you  any  longer  now.  There  are 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  29 

many  others  still  waiting.  You  can  corne  to  see 
me  some  day  next  week,  if  you  have  any  more 
questions  to  ask." 

When  we  got  out  into  the  street,  Amelia  and  I 
got  hold  of  each  other's  hands.  We  did  not  speak 
a  word  till  we  reached  the  door,  but  we  knew  that 
we  were  as  good  friends  as  ever. 

"I  understand  all  Dr.  Cabot  said,"  Amelia  whis 
pered,  as  we  separated.  But  I  felt  like  one  in  a  fog. 
I  cannot  see  how  it  is  possible  to  love  God  and  yet 
feel  as  stupid  as  I  do  when  I  think  of  Him.  Still, 
I  am  determined  to  do  one  thing,  and  that  is  to 
pray  regularly  instead  of  now  and  then,  as  I  have 
got  the  habit  of  doing  lately. 

JULY  25. —  School  has  closed  for  the  season. 

I  took  the  first  prize  for  drawing,  and  ray  composi 
tion  was  read  aloud  on  examination  day,  and  every 
body  praised  it.  Mother  could  not  possibly  help 
showing,  in  her  face,  that  she  was  very  much 
pleased.  I  am  pleased  myself.  We  are  now  get 
ting  ready  to  take  a  journey.  I  do  not  think  I  shall 
go  to  see  Dr.  t^abot  again.  My  head  is  so  full  of 
other  things,  and  there  is  so  much  to  do  before  we 
go.  I  am  having  four  new  dresses  made,  and  I 
can't  imagine  how  to  have  them  trimmed  I  mean 
to  run  down  to  Amelia's  and  ask  her. 


30  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

JULY  27. —  I  was  rushing  through  the  hall 

just  after  I  wrote  that,  and  met  mother. 

"  1  am  going  to  Amelia's/'  I  said,  hurrying  past 
her. 

"Stop  one  minute,  dear.  Dr.  Cabot  is  down 
stairs.  He  says  he  has  been  expecting  a  visit  from 
you,  and  that  as  you  did  not  come  to  him,  he  has 
come  to  you." 

"  I  wish  he  would  mind  his  own  business,"  I  said. 

"I  think  he  is  minding  it,  dear,"  mother  an 
swered.  "His  Blaster's  business  is  his,  and  that 
has  brought  him  here.  Go  to  him,  my  darling 
child:  I  am  sure  you  crave  something  better  than 
prizes  and  compliments  and  new  dresses  and  jour 
neys." 

If  anybody  but  mother  had  said  that,  my  heart 
would  have  melted  at  once,  and  I  should  have  gone 
right  down  to  Dr.  Cabot  to  be  moulded  in  his 
hands  to  almost  any  shape.  But  as  it  was  I 
brushed  past  her,  ran  into  my  room,  and  locked  my 
door.  Oh,  what  makes  me  act  so!  I  hate  myself 
for  it,  I  don't  want  to  do  it! 

Last  week  I  dined  with  Mrs.  Jones.  Her  little 
Tommy  was  very  fond  of  me,  and  that,  I  suppose, 
makes  her  have  me  there  so  often.  Lucy  was  at 
the  table,  and  very  fractious.  She  cried  first  for 
one  thing  and  then  for  another.  At  last  her  mother 
in  a  gentle,  but  very  decided  way  put  her  down 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  31 

from  the  table.  Then  she  cried  louder  than  ever. 
But  when  her  mother  offered  to  take  her  back  if 
she  would  be  good,  she  screamed  yet  more.  She 
wanted  to  come  and  wouldnt  let  herself  come.  1 
almost  hated  her  when  I  saw  her  act  so,  and  now  I 
am  behaving  ten  times  worse  and  I  am  just  as  mis 
erable  as  I  can  be. 

JULY  29. — Amelia  has  been  here.    She  has  had 

another  talk  with  Dr.  Cabot  and  is  perfectly  happy. 
She  says  it  is  so  easy  to  be  a  Christian  !  It  may  be 
easy  for  her;  everything  is.  She  never  has  any  of 
my  dreadful  feelings,  and  does  not  understand  them 
when  I  try  to  explain  them  to  her.  Well !  if  I  am 
fated  to  be  miserable,  I  must  try  to  bear  it. 

OCT.  3. — Summer  is  over,  school  has  begun 

again,  and  I  am  so  busy  that  1  have  not  much  time 
to  think,  or  to  be  low  spirited.     We  had  a  delightful 
journey,  and  I  feel  well  and  bright,  and  even  gay. 
I  never  enjoyed  my  studies  as  I  do  those  of  this 
year.     Everything  goes  on  pleasantly  here  at  home. 
But  James  has  gone  away  to  school,  and  we  miss 
him   sadly.     I   do   wish  I  had  a  sister.     Though   I 
dare  say  I  should  quarrel  with  her,  if  I  nad. 

OCT.  23. — I  am  so  glad  that  my  studies  are 

harder  this  year,  as  I  am  never  happy  except  when 


32  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

every  moment  is  occupied.  However,  I  do  not 
study  all  the  time,  by  any  means.  Mrs.  Gordon 
grows  more  and  more  fond  of  me,  and  has  me 
there  to  dinner  or  to  tea  continually.  She  has  a 
much  higher  opinion  of  me  than  mother  has,  and  is 
always  saying  the  sort  of  things  that  make  you  feel 
nice.  She  holds  me  up  to  Amelia  as  an  example, 
begging  her  to  imitate  me  in  my  fidelity  about  my 
lessons,  and  declaring  there  is  nothing  she  so  much 
desires  as  to  have  a  daughter  bright  and  original 
like  me.  Amelia  only  laughs,  and  goes  and  purrs 
in  her  mother's  ears,  when  she  hears  such  talk.  It 
costs  her  nothing  to  be  pleasant.  She  was  born  so. 
For  my  part,  I  think  myself  lucky  to  have  such  a 
friend.  She  gets  along  with  my  odd,  hateful  ways 
better  than  any  one  else  does.  Mother,  when  I 
boast  of  this,  says  she  has  no  penetration  into 
character,  and  that  she  would  be  fond  of  almost  any 
one  fond  of  her;  and  that  the  fury  with  which  I 
love  her  deserves  some  response.  I  really  don't 
know  what  to  make  of  mother.  Most  people  are 
proud  of  their  children  when  they  see  others  ad 
mire  them;  but  she  does  say  such  pokey  things! 
Of  course  I  know  that  having  a  gift  for  music,  and 
a  taste  for  drawing,  and  a  reputation  for  saying 
witty,  bright  things  isn't  enough.  But  when  she 
doesn't  find  fault  with  me,  and  nothing  happens  to 
keep  me  down,  T  am  the  gayest  creature  on  earth 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  33 

I  do  love  to  get  with  a  lot  of  nice  girls,  and  carry 
on !  I  have  got  enough  fun  in  me  to  keep  a  house- 
ful  merry.  And  mother  needn't  say  anything.  I 
"nherited  it  from  her. 

EVENING. — I  knew  it  was  coming!     Mother 

has  been  in  to  see  what  I  was  about,  and  to  give  me 
a  bit  of  her  mind.     She  says  she  loves  to  see  me 
gay  and  cheerful,  as  is  natural  at  my  age,  but  that 
levity  quite  upsets  and  disorders  the  mind,  indispos 
ing  it  for  serious  thoughts. 

"  But,  mother,"  I  said,  "  didn't  you  carry  on  when 
you  were  a  young  girl  ?  "  , 

"  Of  course  I  did,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  But  I  do 
not  think  I  was  quite  so  thoughtless  as  you  are." 

"  Thoughtless  "  indeed !  I  wish  I  were !  But  am 
I  not  always  full  of  uneasy,  reproachful  thoughts 
when  the  moment  of  excitement  is  over?  Other 
girls,  who  seem  less  trifling  than  I,  are  really  more 
so.  Their  heads  are  full  of  dresses  and  parties  and 
beaux,  and  all  that  sort  of  nonsense.  I  wonder  if 
that  ever  worries  their  mothers,  or  whether  mine  is 
Uie  only  one  who  weeps  in  secret?  Well,  I  shall  be 
young  but  once,  and  while  I  am,  do  let  me  have  a 
good  time! 

SUNDAY,    Nov.    20. — Oh,    the    difference    be 
tween  this  day  and  the  day  I  wrote  that !  There  are 


34  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

no  good  times  in  this  dreadful  world.  I  have  hardlj 
courage  or  strength  to  write  down  the  history  of 
the  past  few  weeks.  The  day  after  I  had  deliberate 
ly  made  up  my  mind  to  enjoy  myself,  cost  what  it 
might,  my  dear  father  called  me  to  him,  kissed  me, 
pulled  my  ears  a  little,  and  gave  me  some  money. 

'*  We  have  had  to  keep  you  rather  low  in  funds," 
he  said  laughing.  "But  I  recovered  this  amount 
yesterday,  and  as  it  was  a  little  debt  I  had  given 
up,  I  can  spare  it  to  you.  For  girls  like  pin-money, 
I  know,  and  you  may  spend  this  just  as  you  please." 

I  was  delighted.  I  want  to  take  more  drawing- 
lessons,  but  did  not  feel  sure  he  could  afford  it.  Be 
sides — I  am  a  little  ashamed  to  write  it  down — I 
knew  somebody  had  been  praising  me  or  father 
would  not  have  seemed  so  fond  of  me.  I  wondered 
who  it  was,  and  felt  a  good  deal  puffed  up.  "  After 
all,"  I  said  to  myself,  "some  people  like  me  if  I  have 
got  my  faults."  I  threw  my  arms  around  his  neck 
and  kissed  him,  though  that  cost  me  a  great  effort 
I  never  like  to  show  what  I  feel.  But,  oh!  how 
thankful  I  am  for  it  now. 

As  to  mother,  I  know  father  never  goes  out  with 
out  kissing  her  good-bye. 

1  went  out  with  her  to  take  a  walk  at  three 
o'clock.  We  had  just  reached  the  corner  of  Orange 
street,  when  I  saw  a  carriage  driving  slowly  to 
wards  us;  it  appeared  to  be  full  of  sailors.  Then  I 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  35 

saw  our  friend,  Mr.  Freeman,  among  them.  When 
he  saw  us  he  jumped  out  and  came  up  to  us.  I  do 
not  know  what  he  said.  I  saw  mother  turn  pale 
•ind  catch  at  his  arm  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  falling. 
But  she  did  not  speak  a  word. 

U0h!  Mr.  Freeman,  what  is  it?"  I  cried  out 
"Has  anything  happened  to  father?  Is  he  hurt? 
Where  is  he?" 

"He  is  in  the  carriage,"  he  said.  "We  are  taking 
him  home.  He  has  had  a  fall." 

Then  we  went  on  in  silence.  The  sailors  were 
carrying  father  in  as  we  reached  the  house.  They 
laid  him  on  the  sofa,  and  we  saw  his  poor  head — 

Nov.  23. — I  will  try  to  write  the  rest  now. 

Father   was   alive    but    insensible.      He    had    fallen 
down  into  the  hold  of  the  ship,  and  the  sailors  heard 
him   groaning  there.     He   lived    three    hours    after 
they  brought  him  home.     Mr.  Freeman  and  all  our 
friends   were   very  kind.     But  we   like   best   to  be 
alone,  we  three,  mother  and  James,  and   I.     Poor 
mother  looks  twenty  years  older,  but  she  is  so  pa 
tient,  and  so  concerned  for  us,  and  has  such  a  smile 
of  welcome  for  every  one  that  comes  in,   that  it 
breaks  my  heart  to  see  her. 

Nov.   25. —  Mother  spoke  to  me  very  seri 
ously  to-day,  about   controlling   myself  more.     She 


36  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

said  she  knew  this  was  my  first  real  sorrow,  and 
how  hard  it  was  to  bear  it.  But  that  she  was 
afraid  I  should  become  insane  some  time,  if  I  indulged 
myself  in  such  passions  of  grief.  And  she  said,  too, 
that  when  friends  came  to  see  us,  full  of  sympathy, 
and  eager  to  say  or  do  something  for  our  comfort, 
it  was  our  duty  to  receive  them  with  as  much  cheer 
fulness  as  possible. 

I  said  they,  none  of  them,  had  anything  to  say 
that  did  not  provoke  me. 

"It  is  always  a  trying  task  to  visit  the  afflicted, * 
mother  said,  "and  you  make  it  doubly  hard  to 
your  friends  by  putting  on  a  gloomy,  forbidding 
air,  and  by  refusing  to  talk  of  your  dear  father,  as 
if  you  were  resolved  to  keep  your  sorrow  all  to 
yourself." 

"I  can't  smile  when  I  am  so  unhappy,"  I  said. 

A  good  many  people  have  been  here  to-day.  Mo 
ther  has  seen  them  all,  though  she  looked  ready  to 
drop.  Mrs.  Bates  said  to  me,  in  her  little,  weak, 
watery  voice: 

"Your  mother  is  wonderfully  sustained,  dear.  I 
hope  you  feel  reconciled  to  God's  will.  Rebellion 
is  most  displeasing  to  Him,  dear." 

I  made  no  answer.  It  is  very  easy  for  people  to 
preach.  Let  me  see  how  they  behave  when  they 
take  their  turn  to  lose  their  friends. 

Mrs.  Morris  said  this  was  a  very  mysterious  dis- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  37 

pensatioii.  But  that  she  was  happy  to  see  that 
mother  was  meeting  it  with  so  much  firmness.  u  As 
for  myself,"  she  went  on,  "  I  was  quite  broken  down 
by  my  dear  husband's  death.  I  did  not  eat  as  much 
as  would  feed  a  bird,  for  nearly  a  week.  But  some 
people  have  so  much  feeling;  then  again  others  are 
so  firm.  Your  mother  is  so  busy  talking  with  Mrs. 
March  that  I  won't  interrupt  her  to  say  good-bye. 
Well,  I  came  prepared  to  suggest  several  things 
that  I  thought  would  comfort  her,  but  perhaps  she 
has  thought  of  them  herself." 

I  could  have  knocked  her  down.  Firm,  indeed! 
poor  mother! 

After  they  had  all  gone,  I  made  her  lie  down,  she 
looked  so  tired  and  worn  out. 

Then  I  could  not  help  telling  her  what  Mrs.  Mor 
ris  had  said. 

She  only  smiled  a  little,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  wish  you  would  ever  flare  up,  mother,"  I  said. 

She  smiled  again,  and  said  she  had  nothing  to 
"flare  up"  about 

"Then  I  shall  do  it  for  you!"  I  cried.  "To  hear 
that  namby-pamby  woman,  who  is  about  as  capable 
of  understanding  you  as  an  old  cat,  talking  about 
your  being  firm !  You  see  what  you  get  by  being 
quiet  and  patient!  People  would  like  you  much 
better  if  you  refused  to  be  comforted,  and  wore  a 
sad  countenance." 


W  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

'*  Dear  Katy,"  said  mother,  "  it  is  not  my  first  ob 
ject  in  life  to  make  people  like  me." 

By  tins  time  she  looked  so  pale  that  I  was  fright 
ened.  Though  she  is  so  cheerful,  and  things  go  on 
much  as  they  did  before,  I  believe  she  has  got  her 
deathblow.  If  she  has,  then  I  hope  I  have  got 
mine.  And  yet  I  am  not  fit  to  die.  I  wish  I  was, 
and  I  wish  I  could  die.  I  have  lost  all  interest  in 
everything,  and  don't  care  what  becomes  of  me. 

Nov.  23. — I  believe  I  shall  go  crazy  unless 

people  stop  coming  here,  hurling  volleys  of  texts  at 
mother  and  at  me.  When  soldiers  drop  wounded  on 
the  battle-field,  they  are  taken  up  tenderly  and 
carried  "to  the  rear,"  which  means,  I  suppose,  out 
of  sight  and  sound.  Is  anybody  mad  enough  to 
suppose  it  will  do  them  any  good  to  hear  Scripture 
quoted — sermons  launched  at  them  before  their  open, 
bleeding  wounds  are  staunched? 

Mother  assents,  in  a  mild  way,  when  I  talk  so 
and  says,  "Yes,  yes,  we  are  indeed  lying  wounded 
on  the  battle-field  of  life,  and  in  no  condition  to  lis 
ten  to  any  words  save  those  of  pity.  But,  dear 
Katy,  we  must  interpret  aright  all  the  well-meant 
attempts  'of  our  friends  to  comfort  us.  They  mean 
sympathy,  however  awkwardly  they  express  it." 

And  then  she  sighed,  with  a  long,  deep  sigh,  that 
told  how  it  all  -wearied  her. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  39 

DEO.  14. — Mother  keeps  saying  I  spend  too 

much  time  in  brooding  over  my  sorrow,  As  for 
her,  she  seems  to  live  in  heaven.  Not  that  she  has 
long  prosy  talks  about  it,  but  little  words  that  she 
lets  drop  now  and  th'en  show  where  her  thoughts 
are,  and  where  she  would  like  to  be.  She  seems  to 
think  everybody  is  as  eager  to  go  there  as  she  is. 
For  my  part,  I  am  not  eager  at  all.  I  can't  make 
myself  feel  that  it  will  be  nice  to  sit  in  rows,  all  the 
time  singing,  fond  as  I  am  of  music.  And  when  I 
say  to  myself,  "  Of  course  we  shall  not  always  sR  in 
rows  singing,"  then  I  fancy  a  multitude  of  shadowy, 
phantom-like  beings,  dressed  in  white,  moving  to 
and  fro  in  golden  streets,  doing  nothing  in  particu 
lar,  and  having  a  dreary  time,  without  anything  to 
look  forward  to. 

I  told  mother  so.  She  said  earnestly,  and  yet  in 
her  sweetest,  tenderest  way, 

"Oh,  my  darling  Katy!  What  you  need  is  such 
a  living,  personal  love  to  Christ  as  shall  make  tho 
thought  of  being  where  He  is  so  delightful  as  to  fill 
your  mind  with  that  single  thought!" 

What  is  "personal  love  to  Christ"? 

Oh,  dear,  dear!     Why  need  my  father  have  been 
snatched  away  from  me,  when  BO  many  other  girls 
have  theirs  spared  to  them  ?    He  loved  me  so !     He 
indulged  me  so  much!     He  was  so  proud  of  me 
What  have  I  done  that  I  should  have  this  dread- 


40  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

ful  thing  happen  to  me  ?  I  shall  never  be  as  happj 
as  I  was  before.  Now  I  shall  always  be  expecting 
trouble.  Yes,  I  dare  say  mother  will  go  next.  Why 
shouldn't  I  brood  over  this  sorrow  ?  I  like  to  brood 
over  it;  I  like  to  think  how  wretched  I  am;  I  like 
to  have  long,  furious  fits  of  crying,  lying  on  my 
face  on  the  bed. 

JAN.  1,  1832. — People  talk  a  great  deal  about 

the  blessed  effects  of  sorrow.  But  I  do  not  see  any 
good  it  has  done  me  to  lose  my  dear  father,  and 
as  to  mother  she  was  good  enough  before. 

We  are  going  to  leave  our  pleasant  home,  where 
all  of  us  children  were  born,  and  move  into  a  house 
in  an  out-of-the-way  street.  By  selling  this,  and 
renting  a  smaller  one,  mother  hopes,  with  economy, 
to  carry  James  through  college.  And  I  must  go  to 
Miss  Higgins'  school  because  it  is  less  expensive 
than  Mr.  Stone's.  Miss  Higgins,  indeed!  I  never 
could  bear  her!  A  few  months  ago,  how  I  should 
have  cried  and  stormed  at  the  idea  of  her  school. 
But  the  great  sorrow  swallows  up  the  little  trial. 

I  tried  once  more,  this  morning,  as  it  is  the  first 
day  of  the  year,  to  force  myself  to  begin  to  love 
God. 

I  want  to  do  it;  I  know  I  ought  to  do  it;  but  I 
cannot.  I  go  through  the  form  of  saying  some 
thing  that  I  try  to  pass  off  as  praying,  every  day 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  41 

QOW.  But  I  take  110  pleasure  in  it,  as  good  people 
say  they  do,  and  as  I  am  sure  mother  does.  No 
body  could  live  in  the  house  with  her,  and  doubt 
that 

JAN.    10. — We   are   in   our   new   home   now, 

and  it  is  quite  a  cosy  little  place.     James  is  at  home 
for  the  long  vacation  and  we  are  together  all  the 
time  I  am  out  of  school.     We  study  and  sing  to 
gether,  and  now  and  then,  when  we  forget  that  dear 
father  has  gone,  we  are  as  iull  of  fun  as  ever.     If  it 
is  so  nice  to  have  a  brother,   what v  must  it  be  to 
have    a   sister!     Dear   old   Jim!     He   is    the    very 
pleasantest,  dearest  fellow  in  the  world  I 

JAN  15. — 1  have  come  to  another  birthday, 

and  am  seventeen.     Mother  has  celebrated  it  just 
as  usual,  though  I  know  all  these  anniversaries,  which 
used  to  be  so  pleasant,  must  be  sad  days  to   her, 
now  my  dear  father  has  gone.     She  has  been  cheer 
ful  and  loving,  and  entered  into  all   my  pleasures 
exactly  as  if  nothing  had  happened.     1  wonder  at 
myself  that  I  do  not  enter  more  into  her  sorrows, 
but  though  at  times  the  remembrance  of  our  loss 
overwhelms  me,  my  natural   elasticity  soon  makes 
me  rise  above  and  forget  it.     And  I  am  absorbed 
with   these    school-days,    that   come   one   after    an 
other,  in  such  quick  succession  that  I  am   all  the 


43  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

-time  running  to  keep  up  with  them.  And  as  long 
as  I  do  that  I  forget  that  death  has  crossed  our 
threshold,  and  may  do  it  again.  But  to-night,  I 
feel  very  sad,  and  as  if  I  would  give  almost  any 
thing  to  live  in  a  world  where  nothing  painful 
could  happen.  Somehow  mother's  pale  face  haunts 
and  reproaches  me.  I  believe  I  will  go  to  bed  and 
to  sleep  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  forget  every 
thing. 


III. 


Juix  16. 

Y  school-days  are  over!     I  have  come  off 
with  flying  colors,  and  mother  is  pleased 
at  my  success.     I  said  to  her  to-day  that 
I  should  now  have  time  to  draw  and  prac 
tice  to  my  heart's  content. 

"You  will  not  find  your  heart  content  with 
either,"  she  said. 

"Why,  mother!"  I  cried,  "I  thought  you  liked 
to  see  me  happy!" 

"And  so  I  do,"  she  said  quietly.  "But  there  is 
something  better  to  get  out  of  life  than  you  have 
yet  found." 

"  I  am  sure  I  hope  so,"  I  returned.  On  the  whole 
I  haven't  got  much  so  far. 

Amelia  is  now  on  such  terms  with  Jenny  Under 
bill  that  I  can  hardly  see  one  without  seeing  the 
other.  After  the  way  in  which  I  have  loved  her, 
this  seems  rather  hard.  Sometimes  I  am  angry 
about  it,  and  sometimes  grieved.  However,  I  find 
Jenny  quite  nice.  She  buys  all  the  new  books  and 

(43) 


44  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

lends  them  to  me.  I  wish  I  liked  more  solid  read 
ing;  but  I  don't.  And  I  wish  I  were  not  so  fond 
of  novels;  but  I  am.  If  it  were  not  for  mother  I 
should  read  nothing  else.  And  I  am  sure  I  often 
feel  quite  stirred  up  by  a  really  good  novel,  and 
admire  and  want  to  imitate  every  high-minded, 
noble  character  it  describes. 

Jenny  has  a  miniature  of  her  brother  "  Charley  " 
in  a  locket,  which  she  always  wears,  and  often 
shows  me.  According  to  her,  he  is  exactly  like  the 
heroes  I  most  admire  in  books.  She  says  she 
knows  he  would  like  me  if  we  should  meet.  But 
that  is  not  probable.  Very  few  like  me.  Amelia 
says  it  is  because  I  say  just  what  I  think. 

WEDNESDAY. — Mother    pointed    out    to    me 

this  evening  two  lines  from  a  book  she  was  reading, 
with  a  significant  smile  that  said  they  described  me ; 

"A  frank,  unchastened,  generous  creature, 
Whose  faults  and  virtues  stand  in  bold  relief!" 

"Dear  me!"  I  said,  "so  then  I  have  some  vir 
tues  after  all!" 

And  I  really  think  I  must  have,  for  Jenny's  bro 
ther,  who  has  come  here  for  the  sake  of  being  neai 
her,  seems  to  like  me  very  much.  Nobody  evei 
liked  me  so  much  before,  not  even  Amelia.  But 
how  foolish  to  write  that  down ! 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  45 

THURSDAY. — Jenny's    brother    has    been   here 

all  the  evening.  He  has  the  most  perfect  manners 
I  ever  saw.  I  am  sure  that  mother,  who  thiaks  so 
much  of  such  things,  would  be  charmed  with  him. 
But  she  happened  to  be  out,  Mrs.  Jones  having 
sent  for  her  to  see  about  her  baby.  He  gave  me  an 
account  of  his  mother's  death,  and  how  he  and  Jen 
ny  nursed  her  day  and  night.  He  has  a  great  deal 
of  feeling.  I  was  going  to  tell  him  about  my  father's 
death,  sorrow  seems  to  bring  people  together  so, 
but  I  could  not.  Oh,  if  he  had  only  had  a  sickness 
that  needed  our  tender  nursing,  instead  of  being 
snatched  from  us  in  that  sudden  way! 

SUNDAY,  AUG.  5. — Jenny's  brother  has  been 

at  our  church  all  day.  He  walked  home  with  me 
this  afternoon.  Mother,  after  being  up  all  night 
with  Mrs.  Jones  and  her  baby,  was  not  able  to  go 
out. 

Dr.  Cabot  preaches  as  if  we  had  all  got  to  die 
pretty  soon,  or  else  have  something  almost  as  bad 
happen  to  us.  How  can  old  people  always  try  to 
make  young  people  feel  uncomfortable,  and  as  if 
things  couldn't  last? 

AUG.  25. — Jenny  says  her  brother  is  per 
fectly  fascinated  with  me,  and  that  I  mvM  try  to 
like  him  in  return.  I  suppose  mother  would  saj 


46  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

my  head  was  turned  by  my  good  fortune,  but  it  is 
not.  I  am  getting  quite  sober  and  serious.  It  is  a 
great  thing  to  be — to  be — well — liked.  I  have  seen 
some  verses  of  his  composition  to-day  that  show  that 
he  is  all  heart  and  soul,  and  would  make  any  sacrifice 
for  one  he  loved.  I  could  not  like  a  man  who  did 
not  possess  such  sentiments  as  his. 

Perhaps  mother  would  think  I  ought  not  to  put 
such  things  into  my  journal. 

Jenny  has  thought  of  such  a  splendid  plan ! 
What  a  dear  little  thing  she  is!  She  and  her 
brother  are  so  much  alike  I  The  plan  is  for  us 
three  girls,  Jenny,  Amelia,  and  myself,  to  form 
ourselves  into  a  little  class  to  read  and  to  study 
together.  She  says  "  Charley  "  will  direct  our  read 
ings  and  help  us  with  our  studies.  It  is  perfectly 
delightful. 

SEPTEMBER  1. — Somehow  I  forgot  to  tel  I  mo 
ther  that  Mr.  Underhill  was  to  be  our  teacher.  So 
when  it  came  my  turn  to  have  the  class  meet  here, 
she  was  not  quite  pleased.  I  told  her  she  could 
stay  in  the  room  and  watch  UR,  and  then  she  would 
see  for  herself  that  we  all  behaved  ourselves. 

SEPT.  19. — The  class  met  at  Amelia's  to 
night.  Mother  insisted  on  sending  for  me,  though 
Mr.  Underhill  had  proposed  to  see  me  home  him- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  47 

self  So  he  staid  after  I  left.  It  was  not  quite  the 
thing  in  him,  for  he  must  see  that  Amelia  is  abso 
lutely  crazy  about  him. 

SEPT.  28. — We  met  at  Jenny's  this  evening 

Amelia  had  a  bad  headache  and  could  not  come. 
Jenny  idled  over  her  lessons,  and  at  last  took  a 
book  and  began  to  read.  I  studied  awhile  with  Mr. 
Underbill.  At  last  he  said,  scribbling  something 
on  a  bit  of  paper, 

"Here  is  a  sentence  I  hope  you  can  translate." 

I  took  it,  and  read  these  words: 

"You  are  the  brightest,  prettiest,  most  warm 
hearted  little  thing  in  the  world.  And  I  love  you 
more  than  tongue  can  tell.  You  must  love  me  in 
the  same  way." 

I  felt  hot  and  then  cold,  and  then  glad  and  then 
sorry.  But  I  pretended  to  laugh,  and  said  I  could 
not  translate  Greek.  I  shall  have  to  tell  mother, 
and  what  wiU  she  say! 

SEPT.  29. — This  morning  mother  began  thus. 

"Kate,  I  do  not  like  these  lessons  of  yours.  At 
your  age,  with  your  judgment  quite  unformed,  it 
is  not  proper  that  you  should  spend  so  much  time 
with  a  young  man." 

"Jenny  is  always  there,  and  Amelia,"  I  replied. 

"That   makes  no  difference.     I   wish    the  whole 


48  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

tiling  stopped.  I  do  not  know  what  I  have  best] 
thinking  of  to  let  it  go  on  so  long.  Mrs.  Gordon 
gays  " — 

"Mrs.  Gordon!  Ha!"  I  burst  out,  "I  knew 
Amelia  was  at. the  bottom  of  it!  Amelia  is  in  lovo 
with  him  up  to  her  very  ears,  and  because  he  does 
not  entirely  neglect  me,  she  has  put  her  mother  up 
to  coming  here,  meddling  and  making" — 

"  If  what  you  say  of  Amelia  is  true,  it  is  most  un 
generous  in  you  to  tell  of  it.  But  I  do  not  believe 
it.  Amelia  Gordon  has  too  much  good  sense  to  be 
carried  away  by  a  handsome  face  and  agreeable 
manners." 

I  began  to  cry. 

"He  likes  me,"  I  got  out,  "he  likes  me  ever  so 
much.  Nobody  ever  was  so  kind  to  me  before. 
Nobody  ever  said  such  nice  things  to  me.  And  I 
don't  want  such  horrid  things  said  about  him." 

"  Has  it  really  come  to  this ! "  said  mother,  quite 
shocked.  "Oh,  my  poor  child,  how  my  selfish  sor 
row  has  made  me  neglect  you." 

I  kept  on  crying. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  she  went  on,  "  that  with  your 
good  sense,  and  the  education  you  have  had,  you  are 
captivated  by  this  mere  boy?" 

"  He  is  not  a  boy,"  I  said.  "  He  is  a  man.  He  is 
twenty  years  old;  or  at  least  he  will  be  on  the  fif 
teenth  of  next  October." 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  49 

"The  child  actually  keeps  his  birthdays!"  cried 
mother.  "Oh,  my  wicked,  shameful  carelessness." 

"It's  done  now,"  I  said,  desperately.  *It  is  too 
late  to  help  it  now." 

"You  don't  mean  that  he  has  dared  to  say  any 
thing  without  consulting  me?"  asked  mother. 
"And  that  you  have  allowed  it!  Oh,  Katherine !  * 

By  this  time  my  mouth  shut  itself  up,  and  no 
mortal  force  could  open  it.  I  stopped  crying,  and 
sat  with  folded  arms.  Mother  said  what  she  had 
to  say,  and  then  I  came  to  you,  my  dear  old 
Journal. 

Yes,  he  likes  me  and  I  like  him. 

Come  now,  let's  out  with  it  once  for  all. 

He  loves  me  and  I  love  him. 

You  are  just  a  little  bit  too  late,  mother. 

OCT.  1.  —  I   never   can    write  down    all    the 

things  that  have  happened.  The  very  day  after 
I  wrote  Jenny  that  mother  had  forbidden  my  going 
to  the  class,  Charley  came  to  see  her,  and  they  had 
a  regular  fight  together.  He  has  told  me  about  it 
eince.  Then,  as  he  could  not  prevail,  his  uncle 
wrote,  told  her  it  would  be  the  making  of  Charley 
to  be  settled  down  on  one  young  lady  instead  of 
hovering  from  flower  to  flower,  as  he  was  doing 
now.  Then  Jenny  came  with  her  pretty  ways,  and 
oried,  and  told  mother  what  a  darling  brother 
3 


50  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

Charley  was.  She  made  a  good  deal,  too,  out  of  his 
having  lost  both  father  and  mother,  and  needing 
my  affection  so  much.  Mother  shut  herself  up,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  prayed  over  it.  I  really  believe 
she  prays  over  every  new  dress  she  buys.  Then 
she  sent  for  me  and  talked  beautifully,  and  I  behaved 
abominably. 

At  last  she  said  she  would  put  us  on  one  year's 
probation.  Charley  might  spend  one  evening  here 
every  two  weeks,  when  she  should  always  be  pres 
ent.  We  were  never  to  be  seen  together  in  pub 
lic,  nor  would  she  allow  us  to  correspond.  If,  at 
the  end  of  the  year,  we  were  both  as  eager  for  it 
as  we  are  now,  she  would  consent  to  our  engage 
ment.  Of  course  we  shall  be,  so  I  consider  myself 
as  good  as  engaged  now.  Dear  me!  how  funny  it 
seems. 

OCT.  2. —  Charley  is  not  at  all  pleased  with 

mother's  terms,  but  no  one  would  guess  it  from  his 
manner  to  her.  His  coming  is  always  the  signal  for 
her  trotting  down  stairs;  he  goes  to  meet  her  and 
offers  her  a  chair,  as  if  he  was  delighted  to  see  her. 
We  go  on  with  the  lessons,  as  this  gives  us  a  chance 
to  sit  pretty  close  together,  and  when  I  am  writ 
ing  my  exercises  and  he  corrects  them,  I  rather 
think  a  few  little  things  get  on  to  the  paper  that 
sound  nicely  to  us,  but  would  not  strik^  mother 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.     .  51 

very  agreeably.  For  instance, s  last  night  Charley 
wrote : 

u  Is  your  mother  never  sick  ?  A  nice  little  head 
aohe  or  two  would  be  so  convenient  to  us !  " 

And  I  wrote  back. 

"You  dear  old  horrid  thing!  How  can  you  be 
so  selfish?" 

JAN.  15,  1833. — I  have  been  trying  to  think 

whether  I  am  any  happier  to-day  than  I  was  at 
this  time  a  year  ago.  If  I  am  not,  I  suppose  it 
is  the  tantalizing  way  in  which  I  am  placed  in 
regard  to  Charley.  We  have  so  much  to  say  to 
each  other  that  we  can't  say  before  mother,  and 
that  we  cannot  say  in  writing,  because  a  corre 
spondence  is  one  of  the  forbidden  things.  He  says 
he  entered  into  no  contract  not  to  write,  and  keeps 
slipping  little  notes  into  my  hand;  but  I  don't 
think  that  quite  right.  Mother  hears  us  arguing 
and  disputing  about  it,  though  she  does  not  know 
the  subject  under  discussion,  and  to-day  she  said  to 
me: 

"  I  would  not  argue  with  him,  if  I  were  you.  He 
never  will  yield." 

"But  it  is  a  case  of  conscience,"  I  said,  "and  he 
ought  to  yield." 

"There  is  no  obstinacy  like  that  of  a  f ,"  she 

began  and  stopped  short. 


52  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"  Oh,  you  may  as  well  finish  it ! "  I  cried.  "  I  know 
you  think  him  a  fool." 

Then  mother  burst  out* 

"Oh,  my  child,"  she  said,  "before  it  is  too  late, 
do  be  persuaded  by  me  to  give  up  this  whole  thing. 
1  shrink  from  paining  or  offending  you,  but  it  is  my 
duty,  as  your  mother,  to  warn  you  against  a  mar- 
riage  that  will  make  shipwreck  of  your  happiness." 

"  Marriage ! "  I  fairly  shrieked  out.  That  is  the 
last  thing  I  have  ever  thought  of.  I  felt  a  chill 
creep  over  me.  All  I  had  wanted  was  to  have 
Charley  come  here  every  day,  take  me  out  now  and 
then,  and  care  for  nobody  else. 

"  Yes,  marriage  !  "  mother  repeated.  "  For  what 
is  the  meaning  of  an  engagement  if  marriage  is  not 
to  follow  ?  How  can  you  fail  to  see,  what  I  see,  oh ! 
so  plainly,  that  Charley  Underbill  never,  never  can 
meet  the  requirements  of  your  soul.  You  are  cap 
tivated  by  what  girls  of  your  age  call  beauty,  regu 
lar  features,  a  fair  complexion  and  soft  eyes.  His 
flatteries  delude,  and  his  professions  of  affection 
gratify  you.  You  do  not  see  that  he  is  shallow, 
and  conceited,  and  selfish  and — " 

"Oh,  mother!  How  can  you  be  so  unjust?  His 
whole  study  seems  to  be  to  please  others." 

"Seems  to  be — that  is  true,"  she  replied.  "His 
ruling  passion  is  love  of  admiration :  the  little 
pleasing  acts  that  attract  you  are  so  many  traps  sei 


STEPPING   HEAVENWARD.  53 

to  catch  the  attention  and  the  favorable  opinion  of 
those  about  him.  He  has  not  one  honest  desire  to 
please  because  it  is  right  to  be  pleasing.  Oh,  my 
precious  child,  what  a  fatal  mistake  you  are  mak 
ing  in  relying  on  your  own  judgment  in  this,  the 
most  important  of  earthly  decisions  I " 

I  felt  very  angry. 

"  I  thought  the  Bible  forbid  back-biting,"  I  said. 

Mother  made  no  reply,  except  by  a  look  which 
said  about  a  hundred  and  forty  different  things. 
And  then  I  came  up  here  and  wrote  soine  poetry, 
which  was  very  good  (for  me),  though  I  don't  sup 
pose  she  would  think  so. 

OCT.  1. — The  year  of  probation  is  over,  and 

I  have  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  be  happy.     But 
being  engaged  is  not  half  so  nice  as  I  expected  it 
would    be.     I    suppose    it    is    owing    to    my    being 
obliged    to    defy    mother's   judgment    in    order    to 
gratify  my  own.     People  say  she  has  great  insight 
into  character,  and  sees,  at  a  glance,  what  others 
only  learn  after  much  study. 

OCT.  10. — I  have  taken  a  dreadful  cold.     It 

ie  too  bad.     I  dare  say  I  shall  be  coughing  all  win- 
tor,  and  instead  of  going  out  with  Charley,  be  shut 
up  at  home. 


54  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

OCT.   12. — Charley  says  he  did  not  know  that 

I  was  subject  to  a  cough,  and  that  he  hopes  I  am  not 
consumptive,  because  his  father  and  mother  both 
died  of  consumption,  and  it  makes  him  nervous  to 
hoar  people  cough.  I  nearly  strangled  myself  all 
the  evening  trying  not  to  annoy  him  with  mine. 


•     iv. 

Nov.  2. 

REALLY  think  I  am  sick  and  going  to 
die.  Last  night  I  raised  a  little  blood.  1 
dare  not  tell  mother,  it  would  distress  her 
so,  but  I  am  sure  it  came  from  my  lungs. 
Charley  said  last  week  he  really  must  stay  away 
till  I  got  better,  for  my  cough  sounded  like  his  mo 
ther's.  I  have  been  very  lonely,  and  have  shed 
some  tears,  but  most  of  the  time  have  been  too  sor 
rowful  to  cry.  If  we  were  married,  and  I  had  a 
cough,  would  he  go  and  leave  me,  I  wonder? 

SUNDAY,    18th. — Poor    mother    is    dreadfully 

anxious  about  me.  But  I  don't  see  how  she  can 
love  me  so,  after  the  way  I  have  behaved.  I  won* 
der  if,  after  all,  mothers  are  not  the  best  friends 
there  are!  I  keep  her  awake  with  my  cough  all 
night,  and  am  mopy  and  cross  all  day,  but  she  ia 
just  ap  kind  and  affectionate  as  she  can  be. 


Nov.   25. — The  day  I  wrote  that  was  SUD- 

(55) 


56  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

day  I  could  not  go  to  church,  and  I  felt  very  for 
lorn  and  desolate.  I  tried  to  get  some  comfort  by 
praying,  but  when  I  got  on  my  knees,  1  just  bursl 
oat  crying  and  could  not  say  a  word.  For  I  have 
uot  seen  Charley  for  ten  days.  As  I  knelt  there  1 
began  to  think  myself  a  perfect  monster  of  selfishness 
for  wanting  him  to  spend  his  evenings  with  me,  now 
that  I  am  so  unwell  and  annoy  him  so  with  my 
cough,  and  I  asked  myself  if  I  ought  not  to  break 
off  the  engagement  altogethei,  if  I  was  really  in 
a  consumption,  the  very  disease  Charley  dreaded 
most  of  all.  It  seemed  such  a  proper  sacrifice  to 
make  of  myself.  Then  I  prayed — yes,  I  am  sure  I 
really  prayed  as  I  had  not  done  for  more  than  a 
year,  and  the  idea  of  self-sacrifice  grew  every  mo 
ment  more  beautiful  in  my  eyes,  till  at  last  I  felt  an 
almost  joyful  triumph  in  writing  to  poor  Charley, 
and  telling  him  what  I  had  resolved  to  do. 

This  is  my  letter: 

MY  DEAR,  DEAR  CHARLEY: — I  dare  not  tell  you 
what  it  costs  me  to  say  what  I  am  about  to  do ;  but 
I  am  sure  you  know  me  well  enough  by  this  time  to 
believe  that  it  is  only  because  your  happiness  is  far 
more  precious  to  me  than  my  own,  that  I  have  de 
cided  to  write  you  this  letter.  When  you  first  told 
me  that  you  loved  me,  you  said,  and  you  have  often 
said  BO  since  then,  that  it  was  my  "brightness  and 
gayety"  that  attracted  you.  I  knew  there 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  57 

something  underneath  my  gayety  better  worth 
your  love,  and  was  glad  1  could  give  you  more 
than  you  asked  for.  I  knew  I  was  not  a  mere 
1  hough tless,  laughing  girl,  but  that  I  had  a  heart  as 
wide  as  the  ocean  to  give  you — as  wide  and  as 
deep. 

But  now  my  "brightness  and  gayety"  have  gone; 
I  am  sick,  and  perhaps  am  going  to  die.  If  this  ia 
so,  it  would  be  very  sweet  to  have  your  love  go 
with  me  to  the  very  gates  of  death,  and  beautify 
and  glorify  ray  path  thither.  But  what  a  weary 
task  this  would  be  to  you,  my  poor  Charley !  And 
so,  if  you  think  it  best,  and  it  would  relieve  you  of 
any  care  and  pain,  I  will  release  you  from  our  en 
gagement  and  set  you  free. 

YOUR  LITTLE  KAIY. 

I  did  not  sleep  at  all  that  night.  Early  on  Mon 
day  I  sent  off  my  letter,  and  my  heart  beat  so  hard 
all  day  that  I  was  tired  and  faint.  Just  at  dark  his 
answer  came;  1  can  copy  it  from  memory. 

DEAR  KATE:  —  What  a  generous,  self-sacrificing 
\ittle  thing  you  are !  I  always  thought  so,  but  now 
you  have  given  me  a  noble  proof  of  it.  I  will  own 
that  I  have  been  disappointed  to  find  your  consti 
tution  so  poor,  and  that  it  has  been  very  dull  sitting 
and  hearing  you  cough,  especially  as  I  was  remind 
ed  of  the  long  and  tedious  illness  throug 
3* 


58  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

poor  Jenny  and  myself  had  to  nurse  our  mother, 
I  vowed  then  never  to  marry  a  consumptive  wom 
an,  and  I  thank  you  for  making  it  so  easy  for  me  to 
bring  our  engagement  to  an  end.  My  bright  hopes 
ire  blighted,  and  it  will  be  long  before  I  shall  fiiui 
mother  to  till  your  place.  I  need  not  say  how 
•jmih  I  sympathize  with  you  in  this  disappoint- 
nen'.  I  hope  the  consolations  of  religion  will 
aow  be  yours.  Your  notes,  the  lock  of  your  hair, 
•st/) ,  I  return  with  this.  I  will  not  reproach  you 
toi  tJ.e  pain  you  have  CQst  me;  I  know  it  is  not  your 
fault  that  vour  health  has  become  so  frail. 

*> 

I  remain  your  sincere  friend, 

CHARLES  UNDERBILL. 

JAN.  1,  1834. — Let  me  finish  this  story  if  J 

can. 

My  first  impulse  after  reading  his  letter  was  to 
fly  to  mother,  and  hide  away  forever  in  her  dear, 
loving  arms. 

But  I  restrained  myself,  and  with  my  heart  beat 
ing  so  that  I  could  hardly  hold  my  pen,  I  wrote 
this : 

MR.  UNDERBILL:  Sir  —  The  scales  have  fallen 
from  my  eyes,  and  I  see  you  at  last  just  as  you 
are.  Since  my  note  to  you  on  Sunday  last  I  have 
had  a  consultation  of  physicians,  and  they  all  agree 
that  my  disease  is  not  of  an  alarming  character,  and 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  59 

that  I  shall  soon  recover.  But  I  thank  God  that 
before  it  was  too  late,  you  have  been  revealed  to 
me  just  as  you  are — a  heartless,  selfish,  shallow  crea 
ture,  unworthy  the  love  of  a  true-hearted  womau, 
unworthy  even  of  your  own  self-respect.  I  gave 
you  an  opportunity  to  withdraw  from  our  engage 
ment  in  full  faith,  loving  you  so  truly  that  I  waa 
ready  to  go  trembling  to  my  grave  alone  if  you 
shrank  from  sustaining  me  to  it.  But  I  see  now 
that  I  did  not  dream  for  one  moment  that  you 
would  take  me  at  my  word  and  leave  me  to  my  fate. 
I  thought  I  loved  a  racw,  and  could  lean  on  him 
when  strength  failed  me.  I  know  now  that  I  loved 
a  mere  creature  of  my  imagination.  Take  back 
your  letters;  I  loathe  the  sight  of  them.  Take 
back  the  ring,  and  find,  if  you  can,  a  woman  who 
will  never  be  sick,  never  out  of  spirits,  and  who 
never  will  die.  Thank  heaven  it  is  not 

KATHERIXE  MORTIMER. 

These  lines  came  to  me  in  reply: 
"Thank   God  it  is  not   Kate   Mortimer.     I    want 
an  angel  for  my  wife,  not  a  vixen.  o.  u." 

JAN.    15. — What   a   tempest- tossed    creature 

this  birthday  finds  me !  But  let  me  finish  this 
wretched,  disgraceful  story,  if  I  can,  before  I  quite 
lose  my  senses. 


60  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

I  showed  my  mother  the  letters.  She  burst  into 
tears,  and  opened  her  arms,  and  I  ran  into  them  as 
a  wounded  bird  flies  into  the  ark.  We  cried  toge 
ther.  Motl.er  never  said,  never  looked, 

"I  told  you  so."     All  she  did  say  was  this: 

"God  has  heard  my  prayers!  He  is  reserving 
better  things  for  my  child!" 

Dear  mother's  are  not  the  only  arms  I  have 
flown  to.  But  it  does  not  seem  as  if  God  ought  to 
take  me  in  because  I  am  in  trouble,  when  I  would 
not  go  to  Him  when  I  was  happy  in  something  else. 
But  even  in  the  midst  of  my  greatest  felicity  I  had 
many  and  many  a  misgiving;  many  a  season  when 
my  conscience  upbraided  me  for  my  willfulness  to 
wards  my  dear  mother,  and  my  whole  soul  yearned 
for  something  higher  and  better  even  than  Charley's 
love,  precious  as  it  was. 

JAN.  26. — I  have  shut  myself  up  in  my  room 

to-day  to  think  over  things.  The  end  of  it  is  that 
I  am  full  of  mortification  and  confusion  of  face.  If 
I  had  only  had  confidence  in  mother's  judgment  J 
should  never  have  got  entangled  in  this  silly  en 
gagement.  I  see  now  that  Charley  never  could 
have  made  me  happy,  and  I  know  there  is  a  good 
deal  in  my  heart  he  never  called  out.  I  wish,  how 
ever,  I  had  not  written  him  when  I  was  in  such  a 
passion  No  wonder  he  is  thankful  that  he  has  got 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  61 

free  from  such  a  vixen.  But,  oh!  the  provocation 
was  terrible! 

1  have  made  up  my  mind  never  to  tell  a  human 
soul  about  this  affair.  It  will  be  so  high-minded 
and  honorable  to  shield  him  thus  from  the  contempt 
he  deserves.  With  all  my  faults  1  am  glad  that 
there  is  nothing  mean  or  little  about  me! 

JAN.  27. —  I  can't  bear  to  write  it  down,  but 

I  will.  The  ink  was  hardly  dry  yesterday  on  the 
above  Belt-laudation,  when  Amelia  came.  She  had 
been  out  of  town,  and  had  only  just  learned  what 
hud  happened.  Of  course  she  was  curious  to  know 
the  whole  story. 

And  1  told  it  to  her,  every  word  of  it!  Oh, 
Kate  Mortimer,  how  "high-minded"  you  are!  How 
free  from  all  that  is  "  mean  and  little !  "  I  could  tear 
my  hair  if  it  would  do  any  good ! 

Amelia  defended  Charley,  and  I  was  thus  led  on 
to  say  every  harsh  thing  of  him  I  could  think  of. 
She  said  he  was  of  so  sensitive  a  nature,  had  so 
much  sensibility,  and  such  a  constitutional  aversion 
to  seeing  suffering,  that  for  her  part  she  could  not 
blame  him. 

"  It  is  such  a  pity  you  had  not  had  your  lungs  ex 
amined  before  you  wrote  that  first  letter,"  she  went 
on.  "  But  you  are  so  impulsive !  If  you  had  only 
waited  you  would  be  engaged  to  Charley,  still!" 


62  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

44 1  am  thankful  I  did  not  wait,"  I  cried,  angrily 
u  Do,  Amelia,  drop  the  subject  forever.  You  and  1 
shall  never  agree  upon  it.  The  truth  is,  you  are 
two-i  hirds  in  love  with  him,  and  have  been,  all 
along." 

She  colored,  and  laughed,  and  actually  looked 
pleased.  If  any  one  had  made  such  an  outrageous 
speech  to  me,  I  should  have  been  furious. 

44 1  suppose  you  know,"  said  she,  "that  old  Mr. 
Underbill  has  taken  such  a  fancy  to  him  that  he  has 
made  him  his  heir;  and  he  is  as  rich  as  a  Jew." 

44  Indeed !  "  I  said,  dryly. 

I  wonder  if  mother  knew  it  when  she  opposed 
our  engagement  so  strenuously. 

JAN.  31. — I  have  asked  her,  and  she  said  she 

did.     Air.  Underbill  told  her  his  intentions  when  he 
urged  her  consent  to  the  engagement.     Dear  moth 
er!     How  unworldly,  how  unselfish  she  is! 

FEB.  4. — The  name  of  Charley  Underbill  ap 
pears  on  these  pages  for  the  last  time.     He  is  en 
gaged  to  Amelia !     From  this  moment  she  is  lost  to 
me  .forever.     How    desolate,    how    mortified,    bow 
miserable  I  am !     Who  could  have  thought  this  of 
Amelia!     She  came  to  see  me,  radiant  with  joy.     I 
concealed  my  disgust  until  she  said   that   Charley 
felt  now  that  he  had  never  really  loved  me,  but  had 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  63 

preferred  her  all  along.  Then  I  burst  rut.  What 
I  said  I  do  not  know,  and  do  not  care.  The  whole 
thing  is  so  disgraceful  that  I  should  be  a  stock  or  a 
stone  not  to  resent  it. 

FEB.   5.— After  yesterday's   passion  of  grief, 

shame,  and  anger,  I  feel  perfectly  stupid  and  lan 
guid.     Oh,  that  I  was  prepared  for  a  better  world, 
and  could  fly  to  it  and  be  at  rest  I 

FEB.  6. — Now  that  it  is  all  over,  how  ashamed 

I  am  of  the  fury  I  have  been  in,  and  which  has  giv 
en  Amelia  such  advantage  over  me!     I  was  begin 
ning  to  believe  that  I  was  really  living  a  feeble  and 
fluttering,  but  reed  Christian  life,  and  finding  some 
satisfaction  in  it.     But  that  is  all  over  now.     I  am 
doomed  to  be  a  victim  of  my  own  unstable,  passion 
ate,  wayward  nature,  and  the  sooner  I  settle  down 
into  that  conviction,  the  better.     And  yet  how  my 
very  soul  craves  the  highest  happiness,  and  refuses 
to  be  comforted  while  that  is  wanting. 

FEB.  7. — After  writing  that,  I  do  not  know 

what  made  me  go  to  see  Dr.    Cabot.     He  received 
me  in  that  cheerful  way  of  his  that  seems  to  prom 
ise  the  taking  one's  burden  right  off  one's   back. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear  child,"  he 
said. 


64  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

I  intended  to  be  very  dignified  and  cold.  As  if 
I  was  going  to  have  any  Dr.  Cabots  undertaking 
to  sympathize  with  me!  But  those  few  kind  words 
just  upset  me,  and  I  began  to  cry. 

"  You  would  not  speak  so  kindly,"  I  got  out  at 
last,  "  if  you  knew  what  a  dreadful  creature  I  am. 
1  am  angiy  with  myself,  and  angry  with  everybody, 
and  angry  with  God.  I  can't  be  good  two  minutes 
at  a  time.  I  do  everything  I  do  not  want  to  do, 
and  do  nothing  I  try  and  pray  to  do.  Everybody 
plagues  me  and  tempts  me.  And  God  does  not  an 
swer  any  of  my  prayers,  and  I  am  just  desperate." 

"  Poor  child  !  "  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  to  him 
self.  "  Poor,  heart-sick,  tired  child,  that  cannot  see 
what  I  can  see,  that  its  Father's  loving  arms  are  all 
about  it ! " 

I  stopped  crying,  to  strain  my  ears  to  listen.  He 
went  on. 

"  Katy,  all  that  you  say  may  be  true.  I  dare  say 
it  is.  But  God  loves  you.  He  loves  you." 

"  He  loves  me,"  I  repeated  to  myself.  "  He  loves 
me"  "Oh,  Dr.  Cabot,  if  I  could  believe  that!  If  I 
could  believe  that,  after  all  the  promises  I  have 
broken,  all  the  foolish,  wrong  things  I  have  done, 
and  shall  always  be  doing,  God  perhaps  still  loves 
me!" 

"  You  may  be  sure  of  it,"  he  said,  solemnly.  "  I 
hie  minister,  bring  the  gospel  to  you  to-day.  Go 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  65 

home  and  say  over  and  over  to  yourself,  *  I  am  a 
wayward,  foolish  child.  But  He  loves  me!  I  have 
disobeyed  and  grieved  Him  ten  thousand  times. 
But  He  loves  me !  I  have  lost  faith  in  some  of  niy 
dearest  friends  and  am  very  desolate.  But  He 
loves  me!  I  do  not  love  Him,  I  am  even  angry 
with  Him  !  But  He  loves  me  I '  " 

I  came  away,  and  all  the  way  homt-  1  tought  this 
battle  with  myself,  saying,  "  He  loves,  me ! "  I 
knelt  down  to  pray,  and  all  my  wasted,  childish, 
wicked  life  came  and  stared  me  in  the  face.  I 
looked  at  it,  and  said  with  tears  of  joy,  "  But  He 
loves  me ! "  Never  in  my  life  did  I  feel  so  rested, 
so  quieted,  so  sorrowful,  and  yet  so  satisfied. 

FEB.  10. — What  a  beautiful  world  this  is, 

and  how  full  it  is  of  truly  kind,  good  people  ?  Mrs. 
Morris  was  here  this  morning,  and  just  one  squeeze 
of  that  long,  yellow  old  hand  of  hers  seemed  to 
speak  a  book-ful!  I  wonder  why  I  have  always 
disliked  her  so,  for  she  is  really  an  excellent  wo 
man.  1  gave  her  a  good  kiss  to  pay  her  for  the 
sympathy  she  had  sense  enough  not  to  put  into 
canting  words,  and  if  you  will  believe  it,  dear  old 
Journal,  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  said, 

"  You  are  one  of  the  Lord's  beloved  ones,  though 
perhaps  you  do  not  know  it." 

I   repeated   again   to  myself  those  sweet,   myste- 


t>6  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

rious  words,  and  then  I  tried  to  think  what  I  could 
do  for  Hirr.  But  I  could  not  think  of  anything 
great  or  good  enough.  I  went  into  mother's  room 
and  put  my  arms  round  her  and  told  her  how  I 
loved  her.  She  looked  surprised  and  pleased. 

"Ah,  1  knew  it  would  come!"  she  said,  laying 
her  hand  on  her  Bible. 

"Knew  what  would  come,  mother?" 

"Peace,"  she  said. 

I  came  back  here  and  wrote  a  little  note  to  Ame 
lia,  telling  her  how  ashamed  and  sorry  I  was  that  I 
could  not  control  myself  the  other  day.  Then  I 
wrote  a  long  letter  to  James.  I  have  been  very 
careless  about  writing  to  him. 

Then  I  began  to  hem  those  handkerchiefs  mother 
asked  me  to  finish  a  month  ago.  But  I  could  not 
think  of  anything  to  do  for  God.  I  wish  I  could 
It  makes  me  so  happy  to  think  that  all  this  time, 
while  I  was  caring  for  nobody  but  myself,  and  fan 
cying  He  must  almost  hate  me,  He  was  loving  and 
pitying  me. 

FEB.  15. — 1  went  to  see  Dr.  Cabot  again 

to-day.  He  came  down  from  his  study  with  his  pen 
in  his  hand. 

"How  dare  you  come  and  spoil  my  sermon  on 
Saturday?"  he  asked,  good-humoredly. 

Though  lie  seemed  full  of  loving-kindness,  I  waf 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  67 

* 
ashamed    of    my    thoughtlessness.     Though    1    did 

not  know  he  was  particularly  busy  on  Saturdays. 
I  f  I  were  a  minister  1  am  sure  I  would  get  my  eo/« 
mo  us  done  early  in  the  week. 

44 1  only  wanted  to  ask  one  thing,"  I  said.  u  1 
want  to  do  something  for  God.  And .  I  cannot 
think  of  anything  unless  it  is  to  go  on  a  mission. 
And  mother  would  never  let  me  do  that.  She 
thinks  girls  with  delicate  health  are  not  fit  for  such 
work." 

"At  all  events  1  would  not  go  to-day,"  he  replied. 
44  Meanwhile  do  everything  you  do  for  Him  who  has 
loved  you  and  given  Himself  for  you." 

I  did  not  dare  to  stay  any  longer,  and  so  came 
away  quite  puzzled.  Dinner  was  ready,  and  as  I 
sat  down  to  the  table,  I  said  to  myself, 

"  I  eat  this  dinner  for  myself,  not  for  God.  What 
can  Dr.  Cabot  mean?"  Then  I  remembered  the 
text  about  doing  all  for  the  glory  of  God,  even  in 
eating  and  drinking;  but  I  do  not  understand  it  at 
all. 

FEB.   19. — It  has  seemed  to   me   for   several 

days  that  it  must  be  that  I  really  do  love  God, 
though  ever  so  little.  But  it  shot  through  my  mind 
to-day  like  a  knife,  that  it  is  a  miserable,  selfish  love 
at  the  best,  not  worth  my  giving,  not  worth  God's 
accepting.  All  my  old  misery  has  come  back  with 


68  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

coven  other  miseries  more  miserable  than  itself.  1 
wish  I  had  never  been  born!  I  wish  I  were 
thoughtless  and  careless,  like  so  many  other  girls 
of  my  age,  who  seem  to  get  along  very  well,  and  to 
enjoy  themselves  far  more  than  I  do. 

FEB.  21. — Dr.  Cabot  came  to  see  me  to-day 

[  told  him  all  about  it.  He  could  not  help  smiling 
as  he  said: 

"When  1  see  a  little  infant  caressing  its  mother, 
would  you  have  me  say  to  it,  'You  selfish  child, 
how  dare  you  pretend  to  caress  your  mother  in 
that  way?  You  are  quite  unable  to  appreciate  her 
character;  you  love  her  merely  because  she  loves 
you,  treats  you  kindly?" 

It  was  my  turn  to  smile  now,  at  my  own  folly. 

"You  are  as  yet  but  a  babe  in  Christ,"  Dr.  Ca 
bot  continued.  "You  love  your  God  and  Saviour 
because  He  first  loved  you.  The  time  will  come 
when  the  character  of  your  love  will  become 
changed  into  one  which  sees  and  feels  the  beauty 
and  the  perfection  of  its  object,  and  if  you  could  be 
assured  that  he  no  longer  looked  on  you  with  fa 
vor,  you  would  still  cling  to  Him  with  devoted 
affection." 

"There  is  one  thing  more  that  troubles  me,"  I 
said.  "  Most  persons  know  the  exact  moment  when 
they  begin  real  Christian  lives.  But  I  do  not  kno^w 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  69 

of  any  such  time  in  my  history.  This  causes  me 
many  uneasy  moments." 

"You  are  wrong  in  thinking  that  most  persons 
have  this  advantage  over  you.  I  believe  that  the 
children  of  Christian  parents,  who  have  been  judic 
iously  trained,  rarely  can  point  to  any  day  or  hour 
when  they  began  to  live  this  new  life.  The  ques 
tion  is  not,  do  you  remember,  my  child,  when  you 
entered  this  world,  and  how  ?  It  is  simply  this,  are 
you  now  alive  and  an  inhabitant  thereof?  And 
now  it  is  my  turn  to  ask  you  a  question.  How 
happens  it  that  you,  who  have  a  mother  of  rich  and 
varied  experience,  allow  yourself  to  be  tormented 
with  these  petty  anxieties  which  she  is  as  capable 
of  dispelling  as  I  am?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  I  answered.  "  But  we  girla 
cant  talk  to  our  mothers  about  any  of  our  sacred 
feelings,  and  we  hate  to  have  them  talk  to  us." 

Dr.  Cabot  shook  his  head. 

"There  is  something  wrong  somewhere,"  he 
said.  "  A  young  girl's  mother  is  her  natural  refuge 
in  every  perplexity.  I  hoped  that  you,  who  have 
rather  more  sense  than  most  girls  of  your  age, 
could  give  me  some  idea  what  the  difficulty  is." 

After  he  had  gone,  I  am  ashamed  to  own  that  I 
was  in  a  perfect  flutter  of  delight  at  what  he  had 
said  about  my  having  more  sense  than  most  girls. 
Meeting  poor  mother  on  the  stairs  while  in  this  ex 


70  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

alted  state  of  mind,  I  gave  her  a  very  short  answei 
to  a  kind  question,  and  made  her  unhappy,  as  I  have 
Diade  myself. 

Jt  is  just  a  year  ago  to-day  that  I  got  frightened 
at  my  novel  reading  propensities,  arid  resolved  not 
to  look  into  one  for  twelve  months.  I  was  getting 
to  dislike  all  other  books,  and  night  after  night  sat 
up  late,  devouring  everything  exciting  I  could  get 
hold  of.  One  Saturday  night  I  sat  up  till  the  clock 
struck  twelve,  to  finish  one,  and  the  next  morning  I 
was  so  sleepy  that  I  had  to  stay  at  home  from  church. 
Now  I  hope  and  believe  the  back  of  this  taste  ia 
broken,  and  that  I  shall  never  be  a  slave  to  it  again. 
Indeed  it  does  not  seem  to  me  now  that  I  shall  ever 
care  for  such  books  again. 

FEB.  24. — Mother  spoke  to  me  this  morning 

for  the  fiftieth  time,  I  really  believe,  about  my  dis 
orderly  habits.  I  don't  think  I  am  careless  because 
I  like  confusion,  but  the  trouble  is  I  am  always  in  a 
hurry  and  a  ferment  about  something.  If  I  want  any 
thing,  I  want  it  very  much,  and  right  away.  So  if  1 
am  looking  for  a  book,  or  a  piece  of  music,  or  a  pat 
tern,  I  tumble  everything  around,  and  can't  stop  to 
put  them  to  rights.  I  wish  I  were  not  so  eager  and 
impatient.  But  I  mean  to  try  to  keep  my  room 
and  my  drawers  in  order,  to  please  mother. 

She  says,  too,  that  I  am  growing  careless  about 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  71 

* 

iny  hair  and  my  dress.  But  that  is  because  my 
mind  is  so  full  of  graver,  more  important  things.  1 
thought  I  ought  to  be  wholly  occupied  with  my 
duty  to  God.  But  mother  says  duty  to  God  in 
cludes  duty  to  one's  neighbor,  and  that  untidy  hair, 
put  up  in  all  sorts  of  rough  bunches,  rumpled  cuffs 
and  collars,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  make  one  of 
fensive  to  all  one  meets.  I  am  sorry  she  thinks  so, 
for  J  find  it  very  convenient  to  twist  up  my  hair 
almost  any  how,  and  it  takes  a  good  deal  of  time  to 
look  after  collars  and  cuffs. 

MARCH    14. — To-day  I  feel   discouraged   and 

disappointed.  I  certainly  thought  that  if  God  re 
ally  loved  me,  and  1  really  loved  Him,  I  should 
find  myself  growing  better  day  by  day.  But  1  am 
not  improved  in  the  least.  Most  of  the  time  I 
spend  on  my  knees  1  am  either  stupid,  feeling  no 
thing  at  all,  or  else  my  head  is  full  of  what  I  was 
doing  before  I  began  to  pray,  or  what  I  am  going 
to  do  as  soon  as  I  get  through.  I  do  not  believe 
anybody  else  in  the  world  is  like  me  in  this  respect 
Then  when  I  feel  differently,  and  can  make  a  nice, 
glib  prayer,  with  floods  of  tears  running  down  my 
cheeks,  I  get  all  puffed  up,  and  think  how  much 
pleased  God  must  be  to  see  me  so  fervent  in  spirit. 
I  go  down-stairs  in  this  frame,  and  begin  to  scold 
Susan  for  misplacing  my  music,  till  all  of  a  sudden 


72  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

I  catch  myself  doing  it,  and  stop  short,  crest  fallen 
and  confounded.  I  have  so  many  such  experiences 
that  1  feel  liks  a  baby  just  learning  to  walk,  who  ia 
BO  afraid  of  falling  that  it  has  half  a  mind  to  sit  down 
Dnce  for  all. 

Then  there  is  another  thing.  Seeing  mother  so 
fond  of  Thomas  a  Kempis,  I  have  been  reading  it, 
now  and  then,  and  am  not  fond  of  it  at  all.  From 
beginning  to  end  it  exhorts  to  self-denial  in  every 
form  and  shape.  Must  I  then  give  up  all  hope  of 
happiness  in  this  world,  and  modify  all  my  natural 
tastes  and  desires?  Oh,  I  do  love  so  to  be  happy! 
And  I  do  so  hate  to  suffer!  The  very  thought  of 
being  sick,  or  of  being  forced  to  nurse  sick  people, 
with  all  their  cross  ways,  and  of  losing  my  friends, 
or  of  having  to  live  with  disagreeable  people,  makea 
me  shudder.  I  want  to  please  God,  and  to  be  like 
Him.  I  certainly  do.  But  I  am  so  young,  and  it 
is  so  natural  to  want  to  have  a  good  time !  And 
now  I  am  in  for  it  I  may  as  well  tell  the  whole 
story.  When  I  read  the  lives  of  good  men  and 
women  who  have  died  and  gone  to  heaven,  I  find 
they  all  liked  to  sit  and  think  about  God  and  about 
Christ.  Now  /  dont.  I  often  try,  but  my  mind 
llies  off  in  a  tangent.  The  truth  is  I  am  perfectly 
discouraged 

MARCH   17. — I    went    to    see    Dr.    Cabot    to 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.      .          73 

day  but  he  wa«-  out,  so  I  thought  I  would  ask  for 
Mrs.  Cabot,  thjugh  I  was  determined  not  to  tell 
her  any  of  my  troubles.  But  somehow  she  £ot  the 
whole  story  out  of  me,  and  instead  of  being  shocked, 
as  I  expected  she  would  be,  she  actually  br,rst  out 
laughing !  She  recovered  herself  immediately,  how 
ever. 

44  Do  excuse  me  for  laughing  at  you,  you  dear 
child  you ! "  she  said.  "  But  I  remember  so  well 
how  I  used  to  flounder  through  just  such  needless 
anxieties,  and  life  looks  so  different,  so  very  different, 
to  me  now,  from  what  it  did  then!  What  should 
you  think  of  a  man,  who  having  just  sowed  his 
field,  was  astonished  not  to  see  it  at  once  ripe  for 
the  harvest,  because  his  neighbor's,  after  long 
months  of  waiting,  was  just  being  gathered  in  ? " 

"  Do  you  mean,"  I  asked,  "  that  by  and  by  I  shall 
naturally  come  to  feel  and  think  as  other  good 
people  do?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  You  must  make  the  most  of  what 
little  Christian  life  you  have;  be  thankful  God  has 
given  you  so  much,  cherish  it,  pray  over  it,  arid 
guard  it  like  the  apple  of  your  eye.  Imperceptibly, 
but  surely,  it  will  grow,  and  keep  on  growing,  for 
this  is  its  nature." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  wait,"  I  said,  despondently. 
"I  have  just  been  reading  a  delightful  book, 
full  of  stories  of  heroic  deeds — not  fables,  but 
4 


74  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

histories  of  real  events  and  real  people.  It  has 
quite  stirred  me  up,  and  made  me  wish  to  possess 
such  beautiful  heroism,  and  that  I  were  a  man,  that 
I  might  have  a  chance  to  perform  some  truly  noble, 
self-GacriScing  acts." 

"I  dare  say  your  chance  will  come,"  she  replied, 
"though  you  are  not  a  man.  I  fancy  we  all  get, 
more  or  less,  what  we  want." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  Let  me  see  then,  what 
I  want  most.  But  I  am  staying  too  long?  Were 
you  particularly  busy?" 

"No,"  she  returned  smilingly,  "I  am  learning 
4 that  the  man  who  wants  me  is  the  man  I  want.'" 

"You  are  very  good  to  say  so.  Well,  in  the  first 
place,  1  do  really  and  truly  want  to  be  good.  Not 
with  common  goodness,  you  know,  but" — 

"But  imcommon  goodness,"  she  put  in. 

"  I  mean  that  I  want  to  be  very,  very  good.  I 
should  like  next  best  to  be  learned  and  accomplish 
ed.  Then  I  should  want  to  be  perfectly  well  and 
perfectly  happy.  And  a  pleasant  -home  of  course,  I 
must  have,  with  friends  to  love  me,  and  like  me,  too. 
And  I  can't  get  along  without  some  pretty,  tasteful 
thing?  about  me.  But  you  are  laughing  at  me1 
Have  I  said  anything  foolish?" 

"If  I  laughed,  it  was  not  at  you,  but  at  poor  hu 
man  nature,  that  would  fain  grasp  everything  at 
once.  Allowing  that  you  should  possess  all  you 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  75 

have  just  described,  where  is  the  heroism  you  so 
much  admire  to  find  room  for  exercise  ? " 

"  That's  just  what  I  was  saying  That  is  just  what 
troubles  me." 

"To  be  sure,  while  perfectly  well  and  happy,  in 
a  pleasant  home,  with  friends  to  love  and  admire 
you  "— 

"Oh,  I  did  not  say  admire,"  I  interrupted. 

"That  was  just  what  you  meant,  my  dear." 

1  am  afraid  it  was,  now  I  come  to  think  it  over. 

"  Well,  with  plenty  of  friends,  good  in  an  uncom 
mon  way,  accomplished,  learned,  and  surrounded 
with  pretty  and  tasteful  objects,  your  life  will  cer 
tainly  be  in  danger  of  not  proving  very  sublime." 

"It  is  a  great  pity,"  I  said,  musingly. 

"Suppose  then  you  content  yourself  for  the 
present  with  doing  in  a  faithful,  quiet,  persistent 
way,  all  the  little,  homely  tasks  that  return  with 
each  returning  day,  each  one  as  unto  God,  and 
perhaps  by  and  by  you  will  thus  have  gained 
strength  for  a  more  heroic  life.  ' 

"But  I  don't  know  how." 

"You  have  some  little  home  duties,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes;  I  have  the  care  of  my  own  room,  and 
mother  wants  me  to  have  a  general  oversight  ol 
the  parlor;  you  know  we  have  but  one  parlor 
now." 

"Is  that  all  you  have  to  do?" 


76  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"Why,  my  music  and  drawing  take  up  a  good 
deal  of  my  time,  arid  I'  read  and  study  more  01 
less,  and  go  out  some,  and  we  have  a  good  many 
visitors." 

"  I  suppose,  then,  you  keep  your  room  in  nice, 
ladylike  order,  and  that  the  parlor  is  dusted  ever^ 
morning,  loose  music  put  out  of  the  way,  books 
restored  to  their  places," — 

"Now  I  know  mother  has  been  telling  you." 

"Your  mother  has  told  me  nothing  at  all." 

"Well,  then,"  I  said,  laughing,  but  a  little 
ashamed,  "I  don't  keep  my  room  in  nice  order, 
and  mother  really  sees  to  the  parlor  herself,  though 
I  pretend  to  do  it." 

"And  is  she  never  annoyed  by  this  neglect?" 

"0,  yes,  very  much  annoyed." 

"Then,  dear  Katy,  suppose  your  first  act  of  he 
roism  to-morrow  should  be  the  gratifying  your 
mother  in  these  little  things,  little  though  they 
are.  Surely  your  first  duty,  next  to  pleasing  God, 
is  to  please  your  mother,  and  in  every  possible 
way  to  sweeten  and  beautify  her  life.  You  may 
depend  upon  it  that  a  life  of  real  heroism  and  self- 
sacrifice  must  begin  and  lay  its  foundation  in  this 
little  world,  wherein  it  learns  its  first  lesson  and 
takes  its  first  steps." 

"And  do  you  really  think  that  God  notices  such 
little  things?17 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  77 

"  My  dear  child,  what  a  question !  If  there  is  any 
one  truth  I  would  gladly  impress  on  the  mind  of  a 
young  Christian,  it  is  just  this,  that  God  notices 
the  most  trivial  act,  accepts  the  poorest,  most 
threadbare  little  service,  listens  to  the  coldest,  fee 
blest  petition,  and  gathers  up  with  parental  fond 
ness  all  our  fragmentary  desires  and  attempts  at 
good  works.  Oh,  if  we  could  only  begin  to  con 
ceive  how  He  loves  us,  what  different  creatures 
we  should  be  !  " 

I  felt  inspired  by  her  enthusiasm,  though  I  don't 
think  I  quite  understand  what  she  means.  I  did 
not  dare  to  stay  any  longer,  for,  with  her  great 
host  of  children,  she  must  have  her  hands  full. 

MARCH  25. — Mother  is   very  much   astonish 

ed  to  see  how  nicely  I  am  keeping  things  in  order. 
I  was  flying  about  this  morning,  singing,  and  dust 
ing  the  furniture,  when  she  came  in  and  began, 
"He  that  is  faithful  in  that  which  is  least" — but  I 
ran  at  her  with  my  brush,  and  would  not  let  her 
finish.  I  really,  really  don't  deserve  to  be  praised. 
For  I  have  been  thinking  that,  if  it  is  true  that  God 
notices  every  little  thing  we  do  to  please  Him,  He 
must  also  notice  every  cross  word  we  speak,  every 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  every  ungracious  look,  and 
that  they  displease  Him.  And  my  list  of  such  oft 
tonces  is  as  long  as  my  life ! 


78  STEPPING   HEAVENWARD. 

MARCH    29. — Yesterday    for    the    firwt    time 

since  that  dreadful  blow,  I  felt  some  return  of  mj 
natural  gayety  and  cheerfulness.     It  seemed  to  comt 
hand  in  hand  with  my  first  real  effort  to  go  so  far 
out  of  myself  as  to  try  to  do  exactly  what  would 
gratify  dear  mother. 

But  to-day  I  am  all  down  again.  I  miss  Amelia's 
friendship,  for  one  thing.  To  be  sure  I  wonder 
how  I  ever  came  to  love  such  a  superficial  charac 
ter  so  devotedly,  but  I  must  have  somebody  to 
love,  and  perhaps  I  invented  a  lovely  creature,  and 
called  it  by  her  name,  and  bowed  down  to  it  and 
worshiped  it.  I  certainly  did  so  in  regard  to  him 
whose  heartless  cruelty  has  left  me  so  sad,  so  deso 
late. 

EVENING. — Mother    has    been    very    patient 

and   forbearing   with   me    all   day.     To-night,    after 
tea,  she  said,  in  her  gentlest,  tenderest  way, 

"Dear  Katy,  I  feel  very  sorry  for  you.  But  I 
see  one  path  which  you  have  not  yet  tried,  which 
can  lead  you  out  of  these  sore  straits.  You  have 
tried  living  for  yourself  a  good  many  years,  and 
the  result  is  great  weariness  and  heaviness  of  soul. 
Try  now  to  live  for  others.  Take  a  class  in  the 
Sunday-school.  Go  with  me  to  visit  my  poor 
people.  You  will  be  astonished  to  find  how  much 
suffering  and  sickness  there  is  ir  this  world,  and 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  79 

fiow  delightful  it  is  to  sympathize  with  and  try  to 
relieve  it." 

This  advice  was  very  repugnant  to  me.  My 
time  is  pretty  fully  occupied  with  my  books,  my 
music  and  my  drawing.  And  of  all  places  in  the 
world  I  hate  a  sick-room.  But,  on  the  whole,  1 
wiU  take  a  class  in  the  Sunday-school. 


APRIL  6. 

HAVE  taken  it  at  last.  1  would  not  take 
one  before,  because  I  knew  I  could  no1 
teach  little  children  how  to  love  God,  un 
less  I  loved  Him  myself.  My  class  is  per 
fectly  delightful.  There  are  twelve  dear  little 
things  in  it,  of  all  ages  between  eight  and  nine. 
Eleven  are  girls,  and  the  one  boy  makes  me  more 
trouble  than  all  of  them  put  together.  When  I  get 
them  all  about  me,  and  their  sweet  innocent  faces 
look  up  into  mine,  I  am  so  happy  that  I  can  hardly 
help  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  kiss  them. 
They  ask  Ihe  very  strangest  questions !  I  mean  to 
spend  a  great  deal  of  time  in  preparing  the  lesson, 
and  in  hunting  up  stories  to  illustrate  it.  Oh,  I  am 
so  glad  I  was  ever  born  into  this  beautiful  world, 
where  there  will  always  be  dear  little  children  to 
love! 

• 
APRIL    13. — Sunday    has    come    again,    and 

frith    it    my    darling    little    class !     Dr.    Cabot    has 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  £1 

preached  delightfully  all  day,  and  I  feel  that  I  be 
gin  to  understand  his  preaching  better,  aLd  that  ii 
must  do  me  good.  I  long,  1  truly  long  to  please 
God;  I  long  to  feel  as  the  best  Christians  feel,  and 
to  live  as  they  live. 

APRIL   20. — Now   that    I    have   these   twelve 

little  ones  to  instruct,  1  am  more  than  ever  in  earnest 
about  setting  them  a  good  example  through  the  week. 
It  is  true  they  do  not,  most  of  them,  know  how  I 
spend   my  time,  nor  how  I  act.     But  /  know,  and 
whenever  I  am  conscious  of  not  practicing  what  I 
preach,   I  am  bitterly  ashamed  and  grieved.     How 
much  work,  badly  done,  I  am  now  having  to  undo  I 
If  I  had  begun  in  earnest  to  serve  God  when  I  was 
as  young  as  these  children  are,   how  many  wrong 
habits  I  should  have  avoided;  habits  that  entangle 
me  now,  as  in  so  many  nets.     I  am  trying  to  take 
each  of  these  little  gentle  girls  by  the  hand  and  to 
lead   her   to   Christ.     Poor   Johnny   Ross   is   not   so 
docile  as  they  are,  and  tries  my  patience  to  the  last 
degree. 

APRIL  27. — This  morning  I  had  all  my  little 

Qock  about  me  and  talked  to  them  out  of  the  very 
bottom  of  my  heart   about  Jesus.     They  left   theii 
seats  and  got  close  to  me  in  a  circle,  leaning  on  my 
lap  and  drinking  in  every  word.     All  of  a  sudden  I 

4* 


82  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

was  aware,  as  by  a  magnetic  influence,  that  a  great 
lumbering  man  in  the  next  seat  was  looking  at  me 
out  of  two  of  the  blackest  eyes  I  ever  saw,  and 
evidently  listening  to  what  I  was  saying.  1  was  dis 
concerted  first,  ihen  angry.  What  impertinence. 
What  rudeness !  I  am  sure  he  must  have  seen  my 
displeasure  in  my  face,  for  he  got  up  what  I  sup 
pose  he  meant  for  a  blush,  that  is  he  turned  several 
shades  darker  than  he  was  before,  giving  one  the 
idea  that  he  is  full  of  black  rather  than  red  blood. 
I  should  not  have  remembered  it,  however — by  it  I 
mean  his  impertinence — if  he  had  not  shortly  after 
made  a  really  excellent  address  to  the  children. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  little  above  their  comprehension, 
but  it  showed  a  good  deal  of  thought  and  earnest 
ness.  I  meant  to  ask  who  he  was,  but  forgot  it. 

This  has  been  a  delightful  Sunday,  i  have  really 
feasted  on  Dr.  Cabot's  preaching.  But  I  am  satis 
fied  that  there  is  something  in  religion  I  do  not  yet 
apprehend.  I  do  wish  I  positively  knew  that  God 
had  forgiven  and  accepted  me. 

MAY  6. — Last  evening  Clara  Ray  had  a  little 

party  and  I  was  there.  She  has  a  great  knack  at 
getting  the  right  sort  of  people  together,  and  of 
making  them  enjoy  themselves. 

I  sang  several  songs,  and  so  did  Clara,  but  they 
&11  said  my  voice  was  finer  and  iji  better  training 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  83 

than  hers.  It  is  delightful  to  be  with  cultivated, 
agreeable  people.  I  could  have  staid  all  night,  but 
mother  sent  for  me  before  any  one  else  had  thought 
of  going. 

MAY  7. — I  have  been  on  a  charming  excur 
sion  to-day,  with  Clara  Ray  and  all  her  set.     I  was 
rather  tired,  but  had  an  invitation  to  a  concert,  this 
evening,  which  I  could  not  resist. 

JULY  21. —  So  much  has  been  going  on  that 

I  have  not  had  time  to  write.     There  is  no  end  to 
the  picnics,  drives,  parties,  etc.,  this  summer.     I  am 
afraid  that  I  am  not  getting  on  at  all.     My  prayers 
are  dull  and  short,  and  full  of  wandering  thoughts. 
I  am  brimful  of  vivacity  and  good  humor  in  com 
pany,  and  as  soon  as  I   get   home  am   stupid  and 
peevish.     I   suppose   this   will   always  be   so,   as  it 
always  has  been;  and  I  declare  I  would  rather  be 
so  than  such  a  vapid,  flat  creature  as  Mary  Jones,  or 
such  a  dull,  heavy  one  as  big  Lucy  Merrill. 

JULY  24. —  Clara  Ray  says  the  girls  think  me 

reckless    and    imprudent    in    speech.     I've    a    good 
mind  not  to  go  with  her  set  any  more.     I  am  afraid 
I  have  been  a  good  deal  dazzled  by  the  attentions  1 
have  received  of  late;  and  now  comes  this  blow  at 
my  vanity. 


84  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

On  the  whole,  J  feel  greatly  out  of  sorts  this 
bvening. 

JULY  28. —  People  talk  about  happiness  to  bo 

found  iri  a  Christian  life.  I  wonder  why  I  do  not 
find  more!  On  Sundays  I  am  pretty  good,  and  al 
ways  seem  to  start  afresh;  but  on  week-days  I  am 
drawn  along  with  those  about  me.  All  my  pleas 
ures  are  innocent  ones;  there  is  surely  no  harm  in 
going  to  concerts^  driving  out,  singing,  and  making 
little  visits !  But  these  things  distract  me ;  they 
absorb  me;  they  make  religious  duties  irksome.  1 
almost  wish  I  could  shut  myself  up  in  a  cell,  and  so 
get  out  of  the  reach  of  temptation. 

The  truth  is,  the  journey  heavenward  is  all  up 
bill.  I  have  to  force,  myself  to  keep  on.  The  won 
der  is  that  anybody  gets  there  with  so  much  to  op 
pose — so  little  to  help  one ! 

JULY  29. —  It  is  high  time  to  stop  and  think. 

1  have  been  like  one  running  a  race,  and  am  stop 
ping  to  take  breath.  I  do  not  like  the  way  in  which 
things  have  been  going  on  of  late.  I  feel  restless 
and  ill  at  ease.  I  see  that  if  I  would  be  happy  in 
God,  I  must  give  Him  all.  And  there  is  a  wicked 
reluctance  to  do  that.  1  want  Him — but  1  want  to 
have  my  own  way,  too.  I  want  to  walk  humbly 
and  softly  before  Him,  and  I  want  to  go  where  J 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  85 

shall  be  admired  and  applauded.     To  whom  shall  1 
yield?    To  God?     Or  to  myself? 

JULY  30. — I  met  Dr.  Cabot  to-day,  and 

could  not  help  asking  the  question: 

"Is  it  right  for  me  to  sing  and  play  in  company 
when  all  I  do  it  for  is  to  be  admired?" 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  all  you  do  it  for ?  "  he  returned 

"Oh/  I  said,  "I  suppose  there  may  be  a  sprink 
ling  of  desire  to  entertain  and  please,  mixed  with 
the  love  of  display." 

"Do  you  suppose  that  your  love  of  display,  al 
lowing  you  have  it,  would  be  forever  slain  by  your 
merely  refusing  to  sing  in  company." 

"I  thought  that  might  give  it  a  pretty  hard 
blow,"  I  said,  "if  not  its  death  blow." 

"Meanwhile,  in  punishing  yourself  you  punish 
your  poor  innocent  friends,"  he  said  laughing. 
"No,  child,  go  on  singing;  God  has  given  you  this 
power  of  entertaining  and  gratifying  your  friends, 
But  pray,  without  ceasing,  that  you  may  sing  from 
pure  benevolence  and  not  from  pure  self-love." 

"Why,  do  people  pray  about  such  things  aa 
that?"  I  cried. 

"Of  course  they  do.  Why,  I  would  pray  about 
iny  little  finger,  if  my  little  finger  went  astray." 

I  looked  at  his  little  finger,  but  saw  no  signs  oi 
its  becoming  schismatic. 


86  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

AUG.  3. — This  morning  I  took  great  delight 

in  praying  for  my  little  scholars,  and  went  to  Sun 
day-school  as  on  wings.     But  on  reaching  my  seat, 
what  was  my  horror  to  find  Maria  Perry  there! 

"0,  your  seat  is  changed/'  said  she.  "I  am  to 
have  half  your  class,  and  I  like  this  seat  better  than 
those  higher  up.  I  suppose  you  don't  care?" 

"But  I  do  care,"  I  returned;  "and  you  have 
taken  my  very  best  children — the  very  sweetest 
and  the  very  prettiest.  I  shall  speak  to  Mr.  Wil 
liams  about  it  directly." 

"At  any  rate  I  would  not  fly  into  such  a  fury," 
she  said.  "It  is  just  as  pleasant  to  me  to  have 
pretty  children  to  teach,  as  it  is  to  you.  Mr.  Wil 
liams  said  he  had  no  doubt  you  would  be  glad  to 
divide  your  class  with  me,  as  it  is  so  large ;  and  1 
doubt  if  you  gain  anything  by  speaking  to  him." 

There  was  no  time  for  further  discussion,  as 
school  was  about  to  begin.  I  went  to  my  new  seat 
with  great  disgust,  and  found  it  very  inconvenient 
The  children  could  not  cluster  around  me  as  they 
did  before,  and  I  got  on  with  the  lesson  very  badly. 
I  am  sure  Maria  Perry  has  no  gift  at  teaching  little 
children,  and  I  feel  quite  vexed  and  disappointed 
This  has  not  been  a  profitable  Sunday,  and  I  am 
now  going  to  bed,  cheerless  and  uneasy. 

AUG.   9. — Mr.  Williams   called   this  evening 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  87 

to  say  that  I  ain  to  have  my  old  seat  and  all  the  chil 
dren  again.  All  the  mothers  had  been  to  see  him, 
or  had  written  him  notes  about  it,  and  requested 
that  I  might  continue  to  teach  them.  Mr.  Wil 
liams  said  he  hoped  I  would  go  on  teaching  for 
twenty  years,  and  that  as  fast  as  his  little  girls  grew 
old  enough  to  come  to  Sunday-school  he  should 
want  me  to  take  charge  of  them.  I  should  have 
\  een  greatly  elated  by  these  compliments,  but  for 
the  display  I  made  of  myself  to  Maria  Perry  on 
Sunday.  Oh,  that  I  could  learn  to  bridle  my  un 
lucky  tongue! 

JAN.  15,  1835.— To-day  I  am  twenty.  That 

sounds  very  old,  yet  I  feel  pretty  much  as  I  did 
before.  I  have  begun  to  visit  some  of  mother's 
poor  folks  with  her,  and  am  astonished  to  see  how 
they  love  her,  and  how  plainly  they  let  her  talk  to 
them.  As  a  general  rule  I  do  not  think  poor  peo 
ple  are  very  interesting,  and  they  are  always  un 
grateful 

We  went  first  to  see  old  Jacob  Stone.  I  have 
been  there  a  good  many  times  with  the  baskets  of 
nice  things  mother  takes  such  comfort  in  sending 
him,  but  never  would  go  in.  I  was  shocked  to  see 
Lew  worn  away  he  was.  He  seemed  in  great  dis 
tress  of  mind,  and  begged  mother  to  pray  with 
him.  I  do  not  see  how  she  could.  I  arn  perfectly 


88  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

sure  that  no  earthly  power  could  ever  induce  me 
to  go  round  praying  on  bare  floors,  with  people 
sitting,  rocking  and  staring  all  the  time,  as  the  two 
Stone  girls  stared  at  mother.  How  tenderly  she 
prayed  for  him! 

We  then  went  to  see  Susan  Green.  She  had  made 
a  carpet  for  her  room  by  sewing  together  little  bits 
of  pieces  given  her,  I  suppose,  by  persons  for 
whom  she  works,  for  she  goes  about  fitting  arid 
making  carpets.  It  looked  bright  and  cheerful. 
She  had  a  nice  bed  in  the  corner,  covered  with  a 
white  quilt,  and  some  little  ornaments  were  ar 
ranged  about  the  room.  Mother  complimented 
her  on  her  neatness,  and  said  a  queen  might  sleep 
in  such  a  bed  as  that,  and  hoped  she  found  it  as 
comfortable  as  it  looked. 

"  Mercy  on  us ! "  she  cried  out,  "  it  ain't  to  sleep 
in  !  I  sleep  up  in  the  loft,  that  I  climb  to  by  a  ladder 
every  night." 

Mother  looked  a  little  amused,  and  then  she  sat 
and  listened,  patiently,  to  a  long  account  of  how 
the  poor  old  thing  had  invested  her  money;  how 
Mr.  Jones  did  not  pay  the  interest  regularly,  and 
how  Mr.  Stevens  haggled  about  the  percentage. 
After  we  came  away,  I  asked  mother  how  she  could 
listen  to  such  a  rigmarole  in  patience,  and  whal. 
good  she  supposed  she  had  done  by  her  visit. 

"Why  the   poor   creature   likes  to   show  off  her 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  89 

blight  carpet  and  nice  bed,  her  chairs,  her  vases  and 
her  knick-knacks,  and  she  likes  to  talk  about  her  be 
loved  money,  and  her  bank  stock.  I  may  not  have 
done  her  any  good,  but  I  have  given  her  a  pleasure, 
and  so  have  you." 

"  Why,  I  hardly  spoke  a  word." 

"Yes,  but  your  mere  presence  gratified  her. 
And  if  she  ever  gets  into  trouble,  she  will  feel 
kindly  towards  us  for  the  sake  of  our  sympathy 
with  her  pleasures,  and  will  let  us  sympathize  with 
her  sorrows." 

I  confess  this  did  not  seem  a  privilege  to  be  cov 
eted.  She  is  not  nice  at  all,  and  takes  snuff. 

We  went  next  to  see  Bridget  Shannon.  Mother 
had  lost  sight  of  her  for  some  years,  and  had  just 
heard  that  she  was  sick  and  in  great  want.  We 
found  her  in  bed;  there  was  no  furniture  in  the 
room,  and  three  little  half-naked  children  sat  with 
their  bare  feet  in  some  ashes  where  there  had  been 
a  little  fire.  Three  such  disconsolate  faces  I  never 
saw.  Mother  sent  me  to  the  nearest  baker's  for 
bread ;  I  nearly  ran  all  the  way,  and  I  hardly  know 
which  I  enjoyed  most,  mother's  eagerness  in  distrib 
uting,  or  the  children's  in  clutching  at  and  de 
vouring  it.  I  am  going  to  cut  up  one  or  two  old 
dresses  to  make  the  poor  things  something  to  cover 
them.  One  of  them  has  lovely  hair  that  would  curJ 
beautifully  if  it  were  only  brushed  out.  I  told 


90  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

her  to  come  to  see  me  to-morrow,  she  is  so 
pretty. 

Those  few  visits  used  up  the  very  time  I  usually 
spend  in  drawing.  But  on  the  whole  I  am  glad 
I  went  with  mother,  because  it  has  gratified  her. 
Besides,  one  must  either  stop  reading  the  Bible 
altogether,  or  else  leave  off  spending  one's  whole 
time  in  just  doing  easy  pleasant  things  one  likes 
to  do. 

•  JAN.  20. — The  little  Shannon  girl  came,  and 

I  washed  her  face  and  hands,  brushed  out  her  hair 
and  made  it  curl  in  lovely  golden  ringlets  all  round 
her  sweet  face,  and  carried  her,  in  great  triumph  to 
mother. 

"  Look  at  the  dear  little  thing,  mother ! "  I  cried ; 
"  doesn't  she  look  like  a  line  of  poetry  ?  " 

"  You  foolish,  romantic  child ! "  quoth  mother. 
"She  looks,  to  me,  like  a  very  ordinary  line  of 
prose.  A  slice  of  bread  and  butter  and  a  piece  of 
gingerbread  mean  more  to  her  than  these  elaborate 
ringlets  possibly  can.  They  get  in  her  eyes,  and 
make  her  neck  cold;  see,  they  are  dripping  with 
water,  and  the  child  is  all  in  a  shiver." 

So  saying,  mother  folded  a  towel  round  its  neck, 
to  catch  the  falling  drops,  and  went  for  bread  and 
butter,  of  which  the  child  consumed  a  quantity  that 
was  absolutely  appalling.  To  crown  all,  tho  un- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  91 

grateful  little  thing  would  not  so  much  as  look  at 
me  from  that  moment,  but  clung  to  mother,  turning 
its  back  upon  me  in  supreme  contempt. 

Moral.  —  Mothers    occasionally    know   more    than 
their  (laughters  do. 


VI. 


24. 

MESSAGE  came  yesterday  morning  from 
Susan  Green  to  the  effect  that  she  had  had 
a  dreadful  fall,  and  was  half  killed.  Mother 
wanted  to  set  off  at  once  to  see  her,  but  I 
would  not  let  her  go,  as  she  has  one  of  her  worst 
colds.  She  then  asked  me  to  go  in  her  place.  I 
turned  up  my  nose  at  the  bare  thought,  though  I 
dare  say  it  turns  up  enough  on  its  own  account. 

"Oh,  mother!"  I  said,  reproachfully,  "that  dirty 
old  woman ! " 

Mother  made  no  answer,  and  I  sat  down  at  the 
piano,  and  played  a  little.  But  I  only  played  dis 
cords. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  my  duty  to  run  after  such 
horrid  old  women  ?  "  I  asked  mother,  at  last. 

ul  think,  dear,  you  must  make  your  own  duties," 
she  said  kindly.  "I  dare  say  that  at  your  age  I 
should  have  made  a  great  deal  out  of  my  personal 
repugnance  to  such  a  woman  as  Susan,  and  very 
little  out  of  her  sufferings." 
(92) 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  93 

1  believe  I  am  the  most  fastidious  creature  in  the 
world.  Sick-rooms  with  their  intolerable  smells  of 
camphor,  and  vinegar  and  mustard,  their  gloom  and 
their  whines  and  their  groans,  actually  make  me 
shudder.  But  was  it  not  just  such  fastidiousness 
that  made  Cha — no,  I  won't  utter  his  name — that 
made  somebody  weary  of  my  possibilities?  And 
has  that  terrible  lesson  really  done  me  no  good? 

JAN.  26. — No  sooner  had  I  written  the 

above  than  I  scrambled  into  my  cloak  and  bonnet, 
and  flew,  on  the  wings  of  holy  indignation,  to  Su 
san  Green.  Such  wings  fly  fast,  and  got  me  a  little 
out  of  breath.  I  found  her  lying  on  that  nice  white 
bed  of  hers,  in  a  frilled  cap  and  night-gown.  It 
seems  she  fell  from  her  ladder  in  climbing  to  the 
dismal  den  where  she  sleeps,  and  lay  all  night  in 
great  distress  with  some  serious  internal  injury.  I 
found  her  groaning  and  complaining  in  a  fearful 
way. 

"  Are  you  in  such  pain  ?  "  I  asked,  as  kindly  as  I 
could. 

"It  isn't  the  pain,"  she  said,  "it  isn't  the  pain. 
It's  the  way  my  nice  bed  is  going  to  wreck  and 
ruin,  and  the  starch  all  getting  out  of  my  frills  that 
I  fluted  with  my  own  hands,  And  the  doctor's 
bill,  and  the  medicines,  oh,  dear,  dear,  dear!" 

Just  then  the  doctor  came  in.     After  examining 


94  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

her,  he  said  to  a  woman  who  seemed  to  have  charge 
of  her, 

44 Are  you  the  nurse?" 

41  Oh,  no,  I  only  stepped  in  to  see  what  I  could 
do  for  her." 

"Who  is  to  be  with  her  to-night,  then?" 

Nobody  knew. 

44 1  will  send  a  nurse,  then,"  he  said.  4t  But  some 
one  else  will  be  needed  also,"  he  added,  looking  at 
me. 

•4I  will  stay,"  I  said.  But  my  heart  died  within 
me. 

The  doctor  tooK  me  aside. 

44  Her  injuries  are  very  serious,"  he  said.  4t  If  she 
has  any  friends,  they  ought  to  be  sent  for." 

44 You  don't  mean  that  she  is  going  to  die?"  I 
asked. 

44 1  fear  she  is.  But  not  immediately."  He  took 
leave,  and  I  went  back  to  the  bed-side.  I  saw 
there  no  longer  a  snuffy,  repulsive  old  woman, 
but  a  human  being  about  to  make  that  mysterious 
journey  to  a  far  country  whence  there  is  no  return. 
Oh,  how  I  wished  mother  were  there! 

"Susan,"  I  said,  "have  you  any  relatives?" 

44  No,  I  haven't,"  she  answered  sharply.  "And 
if  I  had  they  needn't  come  prowling  around  me.  1 
don't  want  no  relations  about  my  body." 

44 Would  you  like  to  see  Dr.  Cabot?" 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  95 

"What  should  I  want  of  Dr.  Cabot?  Don't 
tease,  child." 

Considering  the  deference  with  which  she  had 
heretofore  treated  me,  this  was  quite  a  new  order 
of  things. 

I  sat  down,  and  tried  to  pray  for  her,  silently,  in 
my  heart.  Who  was  to  go  with  her  on  that  long 
journey,  and  where  was  it  to  end? 

The  woman  who  had  been  caring  for  her  now 
went  away,  and  it  was  growing  dark.  I  sat  still, 
listening  to  my  own  heart,  which  beat  till  it  half 
choked  me. 

"What  were  you  and  the  doctor  whispering 
about?"  she  suddenly  burst  out. 

"He  asked  me,  for  one  thing,  if  you  had  any 
friends  that  could  be  sent  for?" 

"I've  been  my  own  best  friend,"  she  returned. 
"Who'd  have  raked  and  scraped  and  hoarded  and 
counted  for  Susan  Green  if  I  hadn't  ha'  done  it? 
I've  got  enough  to  make  me  comfortable  as  long  as 
I  live,  and  when  I  lie  on  my  iying  bed." 

"But  you  can't  carry  it  with  you,"  I  said.  This 
highly  original  remark  was  all  I  had  courage  to  utter. 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  she  cried.  "  I  suppose  yon 
think  I  talk  awful.  They  say  you  are  getting  most 
to  be  as  much  of  a  saint  as  your  ma.  It's  born  in 
some,  and  in  some  it  ain't  Do  get  a  light.  It's  lone- 
some  here  in  the  dark,  and  cold." 


06  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

1  was  thankful  enough,  to  enliven  the  dark  room 
with  light  and  fire.  But  I  saw  now  that  the  thin, 
yellow,  hard  face  had  changed,  sadly.  She  fixed 
her  two  little  black  eyes  on  me,  evidently  startled 
by  the  expression  of  my  face. 

44  Look  here,  child,  I  ain't  hurt  to  speak  of,  am  I  ?  " 

44  The  doctor  says  you  are  hurt  seriously." 

My  tone  must  have  said  more  than  my  words 
did,  for  she  caught  me  by  the  wrist,  and  held  me 
fast. 

44  He  didn't  say  nothing  about  my — about  it's 
being  dangerous?  I  ain't  dangerous,  am  I?"  I 
felt  ready  to  sink. 

"Oh,  Susan!"  I  gasped  out;  "you  haven't  any 
time  to  lose.  You're  going,  you're  going !  " 

44 Going!"  she  cried;  44 Going  where?  You  don't 
mean  to  say  I'm  a  dying?  Why,  it  beats  all  my 
calculations.  I  was  going  to  live  ever  so  many 
years,  and  save  up  ever  so  much  money,  and  then, 
when  my  time  come,  I  was  going  to  put  on  my  best 
fluted  night-gown  and  night-cap,  and  lay  my  head 
on  my  handsome  pillow,  and  draw  the  clothes  up 
over  me,  neat  and  tidy,  and  die  decent.  But  here's 
my  bed  all  in  a  toss,  and  my  frills  all  in  a  crumple, 
and  my  room  all  upside  down,  and  bottles  of  medi 
cine  setting  around  along  side  of  my  vases,  and 
nobody  here  but  you,  just  a  girl,  and  nothing 
else!" 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  97 

All  this  came  out  by  jerks,  as  it  were,  and  at  in 
tervals. 

"Don't  talk  so!"  I  fairly  screamed.  "Pray,  pray 
to  God  to  have  mercy  on  you ! " 

She  looked  at  me,  bewildered,  but  yet  as  if  the 
tiuth  had  reached  her  at  last. 

"Pray,  yourself!"  she  said  eagerly.  "I  dont 
know  how.  I  can't  think  Oh,  my  time's  cornel 
my  time's  come !  And  I  ain't  ready !  I  ain't  ready ! 
Get  down  on  your  knees,  and  pray  with  all  your 
might  and  main." 

And  I  did;  she  holding  my  wrist  tightly  in  her 
hard  hand.  All  at  once  I  felt  her  hold  relax.  Af 
ter  that  the  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  lying  on  the 
floor,  and  somebody  was  dashing  water  in  my  face. 

It  was  the  nurse.  She  had  come  at  last,  and 
found  me  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  where  I  had  fallen, 
and  had  been  trying  to  revive  me  ever  since.  I 
started  up  and  looked  about  me.  The  nurse  was 
closing  Susan's  eyes  in  a  professional  way,  and  per 
forming  other  little  services  of  the  sort.  The  room 
wore  an  air  of  perfect  desolation.  The  clothes 
Susan  had  on  when  she  fell  lay  in  a  forlorn  heap 
on  a  chair;  her  shoes  and  stockings  were  thrown 
hither  and  thither;  the  mahogany  bureau,  in  which 
she  had  taken  so  much  pride,  was  covered  with 
vials,  to  make  room  for  which  some  pretty  trifles 
Lad  been  hastily  thrust  aside.  I  remembered  what 
5 


98  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

I  had  once  said  to  Mrs.  Cabot,  about  having  taste 
ful  things  about  me,  with  a  sort  of  shudder.  What 
a  mockery  they  are  in  the  awful  presence  of  death. 
Mother  met  me  with  open  arms  when  I  reached 
home.  She  was  much  shocked  at  what  I  had  to 
tell,  and  at  my  haviug  encountered  such  a  scene 
alone.  I  should  have  felt  myself  quite  a  heroine 
under  her  caresses,  if  I  had  not  been  overcome  with 
bitter  regret  that  I  had  not,  with  firmness  and  dig 
nity,  turned  poor  Susan's  last  thoughts  to  her  Sav 
iour.  Oh,  how  could  I,  through  miserable  coward 
ice,  let  those  precious  moments  slip  by! 

FEB.  27. — I  have  learned  one  thing,  by  yes 
terday's  experience  that  is  worth  knowing.  It  is 
this;  duty  looks  more  repelling  at  a  distance  than 
when  fairly  faced  and  met.  Of  course  I  have  read 
the  lines, 

Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face; 

but  I  seem  to  be  one  of  the  stupid  sort,  who  never 
apprehend  a  thing  till  they  experience  it.  Now, 
however,  I  have  seen  the  smile,  and  find  it  so  "  fair," 
that  I  shall  gladly  plod  through  many  a  hardship 
and  tiial  to  meet  it  again. 

Poor  Susan !  Perhaps  God  heard  my  eager  prayei 
for  her  soul,  and  revealed  Himself  to  her  at  the  very 
last  moment 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  99 

MARCH   2. — Such  a   strange  thing   has  hap-. 

pened!     Susan   Green  left  a  will,  bequeathing  her 
precious     savings     to    whoever    offered     the     last 
prayer  in  her  hearing !     I  do  not  want,  I  never  could 
touch  a  penny  of  that  hardly-earned  store ;  and  if  I 
did,  no  earthly  motive  would  tempt  me  to  tell  a  hu 
man  being,  that  it  was  offered  by  me,  an  inexperi 
enced,  trembling  girl,  driven  to  it  by  mere  despera 
tion!     So  it  has  gone  to  Dr.   Cabot,   who  will  not 
use  it  for  himself,  I  am  sure,  but  will  be  delighted 
to  have  it  to  give  to  poor  people,  who  really  besiege 
him.     The  last  time  he  called  to  see  her  he  talked 
and  prayed  with  her,  and  says  she  seemed  pleased 
and  grateful,  and  promised  to  be  more  regular  at 
church,  which  she  had  been,  ever  since. 

MARCH  28. — I  feel  all  out  of  sorts.     Mother 

says  it  is  owing  to  the  strain  I  went  through  at 
Susan's  dying  bed.     She  wants  me  to  go  to  visit  my 
aunt  Mary,  who  is  always  urging  me  to  come.     But 
[   do  not  like  to   leave  my  little   Sunday-scholars, 
nor  to  give  mother  the   occasion  to  deny  herself 
in    order    to    meet    the    expense    of   such   a    long 
journey.     Besides,  I  should  have  to  have  some  new 
dresses,  a  new  bonnet,  and  lots  of  things. 

To-day  Dr.  Cabot  has  sent  me  some  directions  for 
which  I  have  been  begging  him  a  long  time.  Lest 
I  should  wear  out  this  precious  letter  by  reading  it 


100  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

over,  I  will  copy  it  here.  After  alluding  to  my  com 
plaint  that  I  still  "saw  men  as  trees  walking,"  he 
says: 

"  Yet  he  who  first  uttered  this  complaint  had  had 
his  eyes  opened  by  the  Son  of  God,  and  so  have 
you.  Now  He  never  leaves  His  work  incomplete, 
and  He  will  gradually  lead  you  into  clear  and  open 
vision,  if  you  will  allow  Him  to  do  it.  I  say  grad- 
uaKiy,  because  I  believe  this  to  be  His  usual 
method,  while  I  do  not  deny  that  there  are  cases 
where  light  suddenly  bursts  in  like  a  flood.  To  re 
turn  to  the  blind  man.  When  Jesus  found  that  his 
cure  was  not  complete,  He  put  His  hands  again 
upon  his  eyes,  and  made  him  look  up;  and  he  was 
restored,  and  saw  every  man  clearly.  Now  this 
must  be  done  for  you ;  and  in  order  to  have  it  done 
you  must  go  to  Christ  Himself,  not  to  one  of  Hia 
servants.  Make  your  complaint,  tell  Him  how  ob 
scure  everything  still  looks  to  you,  and  beg*  Him  to 
complete  your  cure.  He  may  see  fit  to  try  youi 
faith  and  patience  by  delaying  this  completion;  but 
meanwhile  you  are  safe  in  His  presence,  and  while 
led  by  His  hand,  Ho  will  excuse  the  mistakes  you 
make,  and  pity  your  falls.  But  you  will  imagine 
that  it  is  best  that  He  should  at  once  enable  you  to 
see  clearly.  If  it  is,  you  may  be  sure  He  will  do  it. 
He  never  makes  mistakes.  But  He  often  deals  fai 
differently  with  His  disciples.  He  lets  them  grope 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  101 

their  way  in  the  dark  until  they  fully  learn  how 
blind  they  are,  how  helpless,  how  absolutely  in  need 
of  Him. 

"What  His  methods  will  be  with  you  I  cannot 
foretell.  But  you  may  be  sure  that  He  never  works 
in  an  arbitrary  way.  He  has  a  reason  for  every 
thing  He  does.  You  may  not  understand  why  He 
leads  you  now  in  this  way  and  now  in  that,  but 
you  may,  nay,  you  must  believe  that  perfection 
is  stamped  on  His  every  act. 

"I  am  afraid  that  you  are  in  danger  of  falling 
into  an  error  only  too  common  among  young  Chris 
tians.  You  acknowledge  that  there  has  been 
enmity  towards  God  in  your  secret  soul,  and  that 
one  of  the  first  steps  towards  peace  is  to  become  re 
conciled  to  Him  and  to  have  your  sins  forgiven  for 
Christ's  sake.  This  done,  you  settle  down  with  the 
feeling  that  the  great  work  of  life  is  done,  and  that 
your  salvation  is  sure.  Or,  if  not  sure,  that  your 
whole  business  is  to  study  your  own  case  to  see 
whether  you  are  really  in  a  state  of  grace.  Many 
persons  never  get  beyond  this  point.  They  spend 
their  whole  time  in  asking  the  question: 

"'Do  I  love  the  Lord  or  no? 
Am  I  His  or  am  I  not?' 

"I  beg  you,  my  dear  child,  if  you  are  doing  this 
aimless,  useless  work,  to  stop  short  at  once.  Life  it 


102  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

too  precious  to  spend  in  a  tread-mill.  Having  been 
pardoned  by  your  God  and  Saviour,  the  next  thing 
you  have  to  do  is  to  show  your  gratitude  for  this  in 
finite  favor  by  consecrating  yourself  entirely  to 
Him,  body,  soul,  and  spirit  This  is  the  least  you 
can  do.  He  has  bought  you  with  a  price,  and  you 
are  no  linger  your  own.  'But,'  you  may  reply 
'this  is  contrary  to  my  nature.  I  love  my  own 
way.  I  desire  ease  and  pleasure;  I  desire  to  go  to 
heaven,  but  I  want  to  be  carried  thither  on  a  bed 
of  flowers.  Can  I  not  give  myself  so  far  to  God  as 
to  feel  a  sweet  sense  of  peace  with  Him,  and  be 
sure  of  final  salvation,  and  yet,  to  a  certain  extent, 
indulge  and  gratify  myself?  If  I  give  myself  en 
tirely  away  to  Him,  and  lose  all  ownership  in  my 
self,  He  may  deny  me  many  things  I  greatly  desire. 
He  may  make  my  life  hard  and  wearisome,  depriv 
ing  me  of  all  that  now  makes  it  agreeable.'  But,  I 
reply,  this  is  no  matter  of  parley  and  discussion;  it 
is  not  optional  with  God's  children  whether  they 
will  pay  Him  a  part  of  the  price  they  owe  Him,  and 
keep  back  the  rest  He  asks,  and  He  has  a  right  to 
ask,  for  all  you  have  and  all  you  are.  And  if  you 
shrink  from  what  is  involved  in  such  a  surrender, 
you  should  fly  to  Him  at  once  and  never  rest  till 
He  has  conquered  this  secret  disinclination  to  give 
io  Him  as  freely  and  as  fully  as  He  has  given  to 
you.  It  is  true  that  such  an  act  of  consecration  OD 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  105 

yonr  part  may  involve  no  little  future  discipline  and 
correction.  As  soon  as  you  become  the  Lord's  by 
your  own  deliberate  and  conscious  act,  He  will  be 
gin  that  process  of  sanctifieation  which  is  to  make 
you  holy  as  He  is  holy,  perfect  as  He  is  perfect.  He 
becomes  at  once  your  Physician  as  well  as  your 
dearest  and  best  Friend,  but  He  will  use  no  painful 
remedy  that  can  be  avoided.  Kemember  that  it  is 
His  ivill  that  you  should  be  sanctified,  and  that  the 
work  of  making  you  holy  is  His  not  yours.  At  the 
same  time  you  are  not  to  sit  with  folded  hands, 
waiting  for  this  blessing.  You  are  to  avoid  laying 
hindrances  in  His  way,  and  you  are  to  exercise  faith 
in  Him  as  just  as  able  and  just  as  willing  to  give 
you  sanctifieation  as  He  was  to  give  you  redemp 
tion.  And  now  if  you  ask  how  you  may  know 
that  you  have  truly  consecrated  yourself  to  Him,  I 
reply,  observe  every  indication  of  His  will  concern 
ing  you,  no  matter  how  trivial,  and  see  whether 
you  at  once  close  in  with  that  will.  Lay  down  thia 
principle  as  a  law — God  does  nothing  arbitrary.  If 
He  takes  away  your  health,  for  instance,  it  is  because 
He  has  some  reason  for  doing  so ;  and  this  is  true  of 
everything  you  value ;  and  if  you  have  real  faith  in 
Him  you  will  not  insist  on  knowing  this  reason.  If 
you  find,  in  the  course  of  daily  events,  that  your 
self-consecration  was  not  perfect — that  is,  that  your 
will  revolts  at  His  will — do  not  be  discouraged,  but 


104  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

Gy  to  your  Saviour  and  stay  in  His  presence  till  yc,n 
obtain  the  spirit  in  which  He  cried  in  His  hour  of 
anguish,  '  Father,  if  Thou  be  willing,  remove  thia 
cup  from  me:  nevertheless,  not  my  will  but  Thine 
be  done.  Every  time  you  do  this  it  will  be  easier 
to  do  it;  every  such  consent  to  suffer  will  bring  you 
nearer  and  nearer  to  Him;  and  in  this  nearness  to 
Him  you  will  find  such  peace,  such  blessed,  sweet 
peace,  as  will  make  your  life  infinitely  happy,  no 
matter  what  may  be  its  mere  outside  conditions. 
t,ust  think,  my  dear  Katy,  of  the  honor  and  the  joy 
of  having  your  will  one  with  the  Divine  will,  and 
so  becoming  changed  into  Christ's  image  from  glory 
to  glory! 

"But  I  cannot  say,  in  a  letter,  the  tithe  of  what 
I  want  to  say.  Listen  to  my  sermons  from  week 
to  week,  and  glean  from  them  all  the  instruction 
you  can,  remembering  that  they  are  preached  to 
you. 

"  In  reading  the  Bible  I  advise  you  to  choose  de 
tached  passages,  or  even  one  verse  a  day,  rather 
than  whole  chapters.  Study  every  word,  ponder 
and  piay  over  it  till  you  have  got  out  of  it  all  the 
truth  it  contains. 

"  As  to  the  other  devotional  reading,  it  is  better  to 
settle  down  on  a  few  favorite  authors,  and  read  their 
works  over  and  over  and  over  until  you  have  di 
gested  their  thoughts  and  made  them  your  own. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  105 

"  It  lias  been  said  *  that  a  fixed,  inflexible  will  is  a 
great  assistance  in  a  holy  life.' 

"You  can  will  to  choose  for  your  associates  those 
who  aro  most  devout  an(*  holy. 

'•You  can  will  to  read  books  that  will  stimulate 
you  in  your  Christian  life,  rather  than  those  that 
merely  amuse. 

"You  can  will  to  use  every  means  of  grace  ap 
pointed  by  God. 

"You  can  will  to  spend  much  time  in  prayer,  with 
out  regard  to  your  frame  at  the  moment. 

"You  can  will  to  prefer  a  religion  of  principle  to 
one  of  mere  feeling;  in  other  words,  to  obey  the 
will  of  God  when  no  comfortable  glow  of  emotion 
accompanies  your  obedience. 

"You  cannot  will  to  possess  the  spirit  of  Christ; 
that  must  come  as  His  gift,  but  you  can  choose  to 
study  His  life,  and  to  imitate  it.  This  will  infallibly 
lead  to  such  self-denying  work  as  visiting  the  poor, 
nursing  the  sick,  giving  of  your  time  and  money  to 
the  needy,  and  the  like." 

"  If  the  thought  of  such  self-denial  is  repugnant  to 
you,  remember  that  it  is  enough  for  the  disciple  to 
be  as  his  Lord.  And  let  me  assure  you  that  as  you 
penetrate  the  labyrinth  of  life  in  pursuit  of  Chris 
tian  duty,  you  will  often  be  surprised  and  charmed 
by  meeting  your  Master  Himself  amid  its  windings 
and  turnings,  and,  receive  His  soul-inspiring  smile. 
5* 


106  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

Or,  I  should  rather  say,  you  will  always  meet  Him, 
wherever  you  go." 

I  have  read  this  letter  again  and  again.  It  has 
taken  such  hold  of  me  that  I  can  think  of  nothing 
else.  The  idea  of  seeking  holiness  had  never  so 
much  as  crossed  my  mind.  And  even  now  it  seems 
like  presumption  for  such  a  one  as  I  to  utter  so  sa 
cred  a  word.  And  I  shrink  from  committing  my 
self  to  such  a  pursuit,  lest  after  a  time  I  should  fall 
back  into  the  old  routine.  And  I  have  an  unde 
fined,  wicked  dread  of  being  singular,  as  well  as  a 
certain  terror  of  self-denial  and  loss  of  all  liberty. 
But  no  choice  seems  left  to  me.  Now  that  my  duty 
has  been  clearly  pointed  out  to  me,  I  do  not  stand 
where  I  did  before.  And  I  feel,  mingled  with  my 
indolence  and  love  of  ease  and  pleasure,  some  draw 
ings  towards  a  higher  and  better  life.  There  is  one 
thing  I  can  do,  and  that  is  to  pray  that  Jesus  would 
do  for  me  what  He  did  for  the  blind  man — put  His 
hands  yet  again  upon  my  eyes  and  make  me  to  see 
clearly.  And  I  will 

MARCH  30. — Yes,   I   have   prayed,   and   He 

has  heard  me.  I  see  that  I  have  no  right  to  live  for 
myself,  and  that  I  must  live  for  Him.  I  have  given 
myself  to  Him  as  I  never  did  before,  and  havo  en« 
tered,  as  it  were,  a  new  world.  I  was  very  happy 
when  J  first  began  to  believe  in  His  love  for  me. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  107 

and  that  He  had  redeemed  me.  But  this  new  hap- 
piness  is  deeper;  it  involves  something  higher  than 
getting  to  heaven  at  last,  which  has,  hitherto,  been 
my  great  aim. 

MARCH  31. — The  more  I  pray,  and  the  more 

I  read  the  Bible,  the  more  I  feel  my  ignorance. 
And  the  more  earnestly  I  desire  holiness,  the  more 
utterly  unholy  I  see  myself  to  be.  But  I  have 
pledged  myself  to  the  Lord,  and  I  must  pay  my 
vows,  cost  what  it  may. 

I  have  begun  to  read  Taylor's  Holy  Living  and 
Dying.  A  month  ago  I  should  have  found  it  a  te 
dious,  dry  book  But  I  am  reading  it  with  a  sort 
of  avidity,  like  one  seeking  after  hid  treasura 
Mother,  observing  what  I  was  doing,  advised  me 
not  to  read  it  straight  through,  but  to  mingle  a  pas 
sage  now  and  then  with  chapters  from  other  books. 
She  suggested  my  beginning  on  Baxter's  Saints'  Rest, 
and  of  that  I  have  read  every  word.  I  shall  read 
it  over,  as  Dr.  Cabot  advised,  till  I  have  fully  caught 
its  spirit  Even  this  one  reading  has  taken  away  my 
lingering  fear  of  death,  and  made  heaven  wonder 
fully  attractive.  I  never  mean  to  read  worldlj 
books  again,  and  my  music  and  drawing  I 
up  forever. 


VII. 


APRIL  1. 

OTHER  asked  me  last  evening  to  sing  and 
play  to  her.     I  was  embarrassed  to  know 
how  to  excuse  myself  without  telling  her 
my  real  reason  for  declining.     But  some 
how  she  got  it  out  of  me. 

U0ne  need  not  be  fanatical  in  order  to  be  relig 
ious,"  she  said. 

"  Is  it  fanatical  to  give  up  all  for  God  ? "  I  asked. 
"  What  is  it  to  give  up  all  ?  "  she  asked,  in  reply. 
"Why,  to  deny  one's  self  every  gratification  and 
indulgence  in  order  to  mortify  one's  natural  incli 
nations,  and  to  live  entirely  for  Him." 

"  God  is  then  a  hard  Master,  who  allows  His 
children  no  liberty,"  she  replied.  "Now  let  us  see 
where  this  theory  will  lead  you.  In  the  first  place 
you  must  shut  your  eyes  to  all  the  beautiful  things 
He  has  made  You  must  shut  your  ears  to  all  the 
harmonies  He  has  ordained.  You  must  shut  your 
heart  against  all  sweet,  human  affections.  You 

(108) 


STEPPING   HEAVENWARD.  109 

have  a  body,  it  is  true,  and  it  may  revolt  at  such 
bondage " — 

"We  are  told  to  keep  under  the  body,"  I  inter 
rupted.  "Oh,  mother,  don't  hinder  me!  You 
know  that  my  love  for  music  is  a  passion,  and  that 
it  is  my  snare  and  temptation.  And  how  can  I 
spend  my  whole  time  in  reading  the  Bible,  and 
praying,  if  I  go  on  with  my  drawing?  It  may  do 
for  other  people  to  serve  both  God  and  Mammon, 
but  not  for  me.  I  must  belong  wholly  to  the  world 
or  wholly  to  Christ." 

Mother  said  no  more,  and  I  went  on  with  my  read 
ing.  But  somehow  my  book  seemed  to  have  lost  its 
flavor.  Besides,  it  was  time  to  retire  for  my  even 
ing  devotions,  which  I  never  put  off  now  till  the 
last  thing  at  night,  as  I  used  to  do.  When  I  came 
down,  mother  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  by  which  I 
knew  she  was  not  well.  I  felt  troubled  that  I  had 
refused  to  sing  to  her.  Think  of  the  money  she 
has  spent  on  that  part  of  my  education !  I  went  to 
her  and  kissed  her  with  a  pang  of  terror.  What  if 
*he  were  going  to  be  very  sick,  and  to  die? 

"  It  is  nothing,  darling,"  she  said,  "  nothing  at  all 
I  am  tired,  and  felt  a  little  faint." 

I  looked  at  her  anxiously,  and  the  bare  thought 
that  she  might  die  and  leave  me  alone  was  so  ter 
rible  that  I  could  hardly  help  crying  out.  And  I 
saw,  as  by  a  flash  of  lightning,  that  if  God  took  her 


110  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

from  me,  I  could  not,  should  not  say:  Thy  will  be 
done. 

But  she  was  better  after  taking  a  few  drops  of 
lavender,  and  what  color  she  has  came  back  to  her 
dear,  sweet  face. 

APRIL  12.— Dr.  Cabot's  letter  has  lost  all  its 

power  over  me.     A  stone  has  more  feeling  than  L 
I  don't  love  to  pray.     I  am  sick  and  tired  of  this 
dreadful  struggle  after  holiness;  good  books  are  all 
alike,  flat  and  meaningless.     But  I  must  have  some 
thing  to  absorb   and  carry  me  away,  and  I  have 
come  back  to  my  music  and  my  drawing  with  new 
zest     Mother  was  right  in  warning  me  against  giv 
ing  them  up.     Maria  Kelley  is  teaching  me  to  paint 
in  oil-colors,  and  says  I  have  a  natural  gift  for  it 

APRIL    13.  —  Mother    asked    me    to    go    to 

church  with  her  last  evening,  and  I  said  I  did  not 
want  to  go.     She  looked  surprised  and  troubled. 

44 Are  you  not  well,  dear?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  Yes.  I  suppose  I  am.  But  I 
could  not  be  still  at  church  five  minutes.  J  am  so 
uervous  that  I  feel  as  if  I  should  fly." 

44 1  see  how  it  is,"  she  said ;  4'  you  nave  forgotten 
that  body  of  yours,  of  which  I  reminded  you,  and 
have  been  trying  to  live  as  if  you  were  all  soul  and 
ipirit  You  have  been  straining  every  nerve  to 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  Ill 

acquire  perfection,  whereas  this  is  God's  gift,  and 
one  that  He  is  willing  to  give  you,  fully  and 
freely." 

"  I  have  done  seeking  for  that  or  anything  else 
that  is  good,'  I  said,  despondently.  "And  so  I 
have  gone  back  to  my  music  and  everything  else." 

"  Here  is  just  the  rock  upon  which  you  split," 
she  returned.  "You  speak  of  going  back  to  your 
music,  as  if  that  implied  going  away  from  God. 
You  rush  from  one  extreme  to  another.  The  only 
true  way  to  live  in  this  world,  constituted  just  as 
we  are,  is  to  make  all  our  employments  subserve  the 
one  great  end  and  aim  of  existence,  namely,  to 
glorify  God  and  to  enjoy  Him  forever.  But  in 
order  to  do  this  we  must  be  wise  task-masters,  and 
not  require  of  ourselves  what  we  can  not  possibly 
perform.  Recreation  we  must  have.  Otherwise, 
the  strings  of  our  soul,  wound  up  to  a^  unnatural 
tension,  will  break." 

"  Oh,  I  do  wish,"  I  cried,  "  that  God  had  given 
us  plain  rules,  about  which  we  could  make  no  mis 
take!" 

"  I  think  His  rules  are  plain,"  she  replied.  "  And 
some  liberty  of  action  He  must  leave  us,  or  we 
should  become  mere  machines.  I  think  that  those 
who  love  Him,  and  wait  upon  Him  day  by  day, 
learn  His  will  almost  imperceptibly,  and  need  not 
go  astray." 


112  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"But,  mother,  music  and  drawing  are  sharp- 
edged  tools  in  such  hands  as  mine.  I  cannot  be 
moderate  in  my  use  of  them.  And  the  more  I  do- 
light  in  them,  the  less  I  delight  in  God." 

"Yes,  this  is  human  nature.  But  God's  divine 
nature  will  supplant  it,  if  we  only  consent  to  let 
Him  work  in  us  of  His  own  good  pleasure." 

NEW  YORK,  April  16. — After  all,  mother  has  come 
off  conqueror,  and  here  I  am  at  Aunty's  After 
our  quiet,  plain  little  home,  in  our  quiet  little  town, 
this  seems  like  a  new  world.  The  house  is  large, 
but  it  is  as  full  as  it  can  hold.  Aunty  has  six  chil 
dren  of  her  own,  and  has  adopted  two.  She  says 
she  always  meant  to  imitate  the  old  woman  who 
lived  in  a  shoe.  She  reminds  me  of  mother,  and 
yet  she  is  very  different ;  full  of  fun  and  energy ;  fly 
ing  about  the  house  as  on  wings,  with  a  kind,  bright 
word  for  every  body.  All  her  household  affairs  go 
on  like  clock-work;  the  children  are  always  nicely 
dressed;  nobody  ever  seems  out  of  humor;  nobody 
is  ever  sick.  Aunty  is  the  central  object  round 
which  every  body  revolves;  you  can't  forget  her  a 
moment,  for  she  is  always  doing  something  for  you , 
and  then  her  unflagging  good  humor  and  cheerful 
ness  keep  you  good-hurnored  and  cheerful  J  don't 
wonder  Uncle  Alfred  loves  her  so! 

I  hope  I  shall  have  just  such  a  home.     J   mean 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  113 

this  is  the  sort  of  home  I  should  like  if  I  ever  mar- 
ried,  which  I  never  mean  to  do.  I  should  like  to  be 
just  such  a  bright,  loving  wife  as  Aunty  is ;  to  have 
my  husband  lean  on  me  as  Uncle  leans  on  her;  to 
have  just  as  many  children,  and  to  train  them  as 
wisely  and  kindly  as  she  does  hers.  Then,  indeed, 
I  should  feel  that  I  had  not  been  born  in  vain,  but 
had  a  high  and  sacred  mission  on  earth.  But  as  it 
is,  I  must  just  pick  up  what  scraps  of  usefulness  I 
can,  and  let  the  rest  go. 

APRIL    18. — Aunty   says   I   sit   writing    and 

reading  and  thinking  too  much,  and  wants  me  to  go 
out  more.  I  tell  her  I  don't  feel  strong  enough  to 
go  out  much.  She  says  that  is  all  nonsense,  and 
drags  me  out.  I  get  tired,  and  hungry,  and  sleep 
like  a  baby  a  month  old.  I  see  now  mother's  wis 
dom  and  kindness  in  making  me  leave  home  when 
I  did.  I  had  veered  about  from  point  to  point  till 
I  was  nearly  ill.  Now  Aunty  keeps  me  well  by 
making  me  go  out,  and  dear  Dr.  Cabot's  precious 
letter  can  work  a  true  and  not  a  morbid  work  in 
my  soul.  I  am  very  happy.  I  have  delightful 
talks  with  Aunty,  who  sets  me  right  at  this  point 
bind  at  that;  and  it  is  beautiful  to  watch  her  home- 
life  and  to  see  with  what  sweet  unconsciousness 
she  carries  her  religion  into  every  detail.  I  am  sure 
it  must  do  me  good  to  be  here;  and  yet,  if  I  am 


114  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

growing  better,  how  slowly,  how  slowly,  it  is !  Some 
body  has  said  that  "our  course  heavenward  is  like 
the  plan  of  the  zealous  pilgrims  of  old,  who  for 
every  three  steps  forward,  took  one  backward.*1 

APRIL  30. — Aunty's  baby,  my  dear  father's 

namesake,  and  hitherto  the  merriest  little  fellow  1 
ever  saw,  was  taken  sick  last  night,  very  suddenly. 
She  sent  for  the  doctor  at  once,  who  would  not  say 
positively  what  was  the  matter,  but  this  morning 
pronounced   it   scarlet   fever.     The   three   youngest 
have  all  come  down  with  it  to-day.     If  they  were 
my  children,   I  should  be  in  a  perfect  worry  and 
flurry.     Indeed,   I   am  as  it  is.     But   Aunty  is  as 
bright  and  cheerful  as  ever.     She  flies  from  one  to 
another,  and  keeps  up  their  spirits  with  her  own 
gayety.     I  am  mortified  to  find  that  at  such  a  time 
as  this  I  can  think  of  myself,  and  that  I  find  it  irk 
some  to  be  shut  up  in  sick-rooms,  instead  of  walk 
ing,  driving,  visiting,  and  the  like.     But,  as  Dr.  Ca 
bot  says,  I  can  now  choose  to  imitate  my  Master, 
who  spent  His  whole  life  in  doing  good,  and  I  do 
hope,  too,  to  be  of  some  little  use  to  Aunty,  after 
her  kindness  to  me. 

MAT  1.— The   doctor  says  the   children   are 

doing  as  well  as  could  be   expected.     He  made  a 
short  visit  this  morning,  as  it  is  Sunday.     If  I  had 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  115 

ever  seen  him  before  I  should  say  I  had  some  un 
pleasant  association  with  him.  I  wonder  Aunty 
employs  such  a  great  clumsy  man.  But  she  says 
he  is  very  good,  and  very  skillful.  I  wish  I  did  not 
take  such  violent  likes  and  dislikes  to  people.  I 
want  my  religion  to  change  me  in  every  respect 

MAY  2. — Oh,  I  know  now !     This  is  the  very 

man  who  was  so  rude  at  Sunday-school,  and  after 
wards  made   such  a  nice   address  to  the  children 
Well  he  may  know  how  to  speak  in  public,  but  I 
am  sure  he  doesn't  in  private.     I  never  knew  such 
a  shut-up  man. 

MAT  4. — I  have  my  hands  as  full  as  they  can 

hold.     The  children  have  got  so  fond  of  me,  and 
one  or  the  other  is  in  my  lap  nearly  all  the  time.     I 
sing  to  them,  tell  them  stories,  build  block-houses, 
and  relieve  Aunty  all  I  can.     Dull  and  poky  as  the 
doctor  is,  I  am  not  afraid  of  him,  for  he  never  no 
tices  anything  I  say  or  do,  so  while  he  is  holding 
solemn  consultations  with  Aunty  in  one  corner,   I 
can  sing  and  talk  all  sorts  of  nonsense  to  my  little 
pets  in  mine.     What  fearful  black  eyes  he  has,  and 
what  masses  of  black  hair! 

This  busy  life  quite  suits  me,  now  I  have  got  used 
to  it.  Ani  it  sweetens  every  bit  of  work  to  think 
that  1  aai  doing  it  in  humble,  far-off,  yet  real  imi- 


116  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

i 

tation    of   Jesus.     I    am    indeed    really   and    truly 
happy. 

MAT  14 — It  is  now  two  weeks  since  little 

Raymond  was  taken  sick,  and  I  have  just  lived  in 
the  nursery  all  the  time,  though  Aunty  has  tried  to 
make  me  go  out.     Little  Emma  was  taken  down  to 
day,  though  she  has  been  kept  on  the  third  floor  al\ 
the  time.     I  feel  dreadfully  myself.     But  this  hard, 
cold  doctor  of  Aunty's  is  so  taken  up  with  the  chil 
dren  that  he  never  so  much  as  looks  at  me,     I  have 
been  in  a  perfect  shiver  all  day,  but  these  merciless 
little  folks  call  for  stories  as  eagerly  as  ever.     Well, 
let  me  be  a  comfort  to  them  if  I  can !     I  hate  selfish 
ness  more  and  more,  and  am  shocked  to  see  how 
selfish  I  have  been. 

MAI  15. — I  was  in  a  burning  fever  all  night, 

and  my  head  ached,  and  my  throat  was  and  is  very 
aore.     If  I  knew  I  was  going  to  die  I  would  burn 
up  this  journal  first.     I  would  not  have  any  one  see 
it  for  the  world. 

MAY  24. — Dr.   Elliott  asked  me  on  Sunday 

morning  a  week  ago,  if  I  still  felt  well.     For  an 
swer  I  behaved  like  a  goose,  and  burst  out  crying. 
Aunty  looked  more  anxious  than  I  have  seen  her 
look  yet,  and  reproached  herself  for  having  allowed 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  117 

me  to  be  with  the  children.  She  took  me  by  one 
elbow,  and  the  doctor  by  the  other,  and  they 
marched  me  off  to  my  own  room,  where  I  was  put 
through  the  usual  routine  on  such  occasions,  and 
I  hen  ordered  to  bed.  I  fell  asleep  immediately  and 
slept  all  day.  The  doctor  came  to  see  me  in  the 
evening,  and  made  me  a  short,  stiff  little  visit,  gave 
me  a  powder,  and  said  he  thought  I  should  soon  be 
better. 

I  had  two  such  visits  from  him  the  next  day, 
when  I  began  to  feel  quite  like  myself  again,  and  in 
spite  of  his  grave,  staid  deportment,  could  not  help 
letting  my  good  spirits  run  away  with  me  in  a  style 
that  evidently  shocked  him.  He  says  persons  nurs 
ing  in  scarlet  fever  often  have  such  little  attacks  aa 
mine ;  indeed  every  one  of  the  servants  have  had  a 
touch  of  sore  throat  and  headache. 

MAY  25. — This  morning,  just  as  the  doctoi 

shuffled  in  on  his  big  feet,  it  came  over  me  how 
ridiculously  I  must  have  looked  the  day  I  was  taken 
*ick,  being  walked  off  between  Aunty  and  himself, 
crying  like  a  baby.  I  burst  out  laughing,  and  no 
consideration  I  could  make  to  myself  would  stop 
mo.  I  pinched  myself,  asked  myself  how  I  should 
feel  if  one  of  the  children  should  die,  and  used  other 
kindred  devices  all  to  no  purpose.  At  last  the  doc 
tor,  gravity  personified  as  he  is,  joined  in,  though 


118  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

noi  knowing  in  the  least  what  he  was  laughing  at 
Then  he  said, 

"After  this,  I  suppose,  I  shall  have  to  pronounce 
you  convalescent." 

"  Oh,  no  I "  I  cried.     "  I  am  very  sick  indeed." 

"  This  looks  like  it,  to  be  sure ! "  said  Aunty. 

"  I  suppose  this  will  be  your  last  visit,  Dr.  Elliott," 
1  went  on,  "and  I  am  glad  of  it.  After  the  way  1 
behavod  the  day  I  was  taken  sick,  I  have  been 
ashamod  to  look  you  in  the  face.  But  I  really  felt 
dreadfully." 

He  made  no  answer  whatever.  I  don't  suppose 
he  would  speak  a  little  flattering  word  by  way  oi 
putting  one  in  good  humor  with  one's  self,  for  the 
whole  world! 

JUNE  1. — We  are  all  as  well  as  ever,  but  the 

doctor  keeps  some  of  the  children  still  confined  to 
the  house  for  fear  of  bad  consequences  following  the 
fever.  He  visits  them  twice  a  day  for  the  same 
reason,  or  at  least  under  that  pretense,  but  I  really 
believe  he  comes  because  he  has  got  the  habit  of 
ooming,  and  because  he  admires  Aunty  so  much. 
She  has  a  real  affection  for  him,  and  is  continually 
asking  me  if  I  don't  like  this  and  that  quality  in  him 
which  I  can't  see  at  all.  We  begin  to  drive  out 
again.  The  weather  is  very  warm,  but  I  feel  per 
fectly  well. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  119 

JUNE  2. — After  the  children's  dinner  to-day 

I  took  care  of  them  while  their  nurse  got  hers  and 
Aunty  went  to  lie  down,  as  she  is  all  tired  out.  We 
were  all  full  of  life  and  fun,  and  some  of  the  little 
ones  wanted  me  to  play  a  play  of  their  own  inven 
tion,  which  was  to  lie  down  on  the  floor,  cover  my 
face  with  a  handkerchief,  and  make  believe  I  was 
dead.  They  were  to  gather  about  me,  and  I  was 
suddenly  to  come  to  life  and  jump  up  and  try  to 
catch  them  as  they  all  ran  scampering  and  scream 
ing  about.  We  had  played  in  this  interesting  way 
for  some  time,  and  my  hair,  which  I  keep  in  nice 
order  now-a-days,  was  pulled  down,  and  flying 
every  way,  when  in  marched  the  doctor.  I  started 
up  and  came  to  life  quickly  enough  when  I  heard 
his  step,  looking  red  and  angry,  no  doubt. 

"I  should  think  you  might  have  knocked,  Dr. 
Elliott,"  I  said,  with  much  displeasure. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon ;  I  knocked  several  times,"  he 
returned.  "I  need  hardly  ask  how  my  little  pa 
tients  are." 

"No,"  I  replied,  still  ruffled,  and  making  desper 
ate  efforts  to  get  my  hair  into  some  sort  of  order. 
"They  are  as  well  as  possible." 

"I  came  a  little  earlier  than  usual,  to-day,"  he 
went  on,  "  because  I  am  called  to  visit  my  uncle,  Dr, 
Cabot,  who  is  in  a  very  critical  state  of  health." 

"Dr    Cabot!"  I  repeated,  bursting  into  tears. 


120  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"Compose  yourself,  I  entreat,"  he  said;  k  i  hop* 
that  I  may  be  able  to  relieve  him.  At  all  events" — 

"  At  all  events,  if  you  let  him  die  it  will  break  my 
heart,"  I  cried,  passionately.  "Don't  wait  another 
moment;  go  this  instant." 

"  I  cannot  go  this  instant,"  he  "eplied.  "  The 
boat  does  not  leave  until  four  o'clock.  And  if  I  may 
be  allowed,  as  a  physician,  to  say  one  word,  that  my 
brief  acquaintance  hardly  justifies,  I  do  wish  to  warn 
you  that  unless  you  acquire  more  self-control — " 

"Oh,  I  know  that  I  have  a  quick  temper,  and 
that  I  spoke  very  rudely  to  you  just  now,"  I  inter 
rupted,  not  a  little  startled  by  the  seriousness  of 
his  manner. 

"  I  did  not  refer  to  your  temper,"  he  said.  "  I 
meant  your  whole  passionate  nature.  Your  ve 
hement  loves  and  hates,  your  ecstacies  and  youi 
despondencies;  your  disposition  to  throw  yourself 
headlong  into  whatever  interests  you." 

"I  would  rather  have  too  little  self-control,"  I 
retorted,  resentfully,  "  than  to  be  as  cold  as  a  stone, 
and  as  hard  as  a  rock,  and  as  silent  as  the  grave, 
like  some  people  I  know." 

His  countenance  fell;  he  looked  disappointed, 
even  pained. 

"I  shall  probably  see  your  mother,"  he  said, 
turning  to  go;  "your  aunt  wishes  me  to  call  on 
her;  have  you  any  message?" 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  121 

"No"  I  said. 

Another  pained,  disappointed  look  made  me  be 
gin  to  recollect  myself.  '  I  was  sorry,  oh !  so  sorry, 
for  my  anger  and  rudeness.  I  ran  after  him,  into 
the  hall,  my  eyes  full  of  tears,  holding  out  both 
hands,  which  he  took  in  both  his. 

"Don't  go  until  you  have  forgiven  me  for  being 
so  angry ! "  I  cried.  "  Indeed,  Dr.  Elliott,  though 
you  may  not  be  able  to  believe  it,  I  am  trying  to  do 
right  all  the  time!" 

"I  do  believe  it,"  he  said  earnestly. 

14  Then  tell  me  that  you  forgive  me ! " 

"  If  I  once  begin,  I  shall  be  tempted  to  tell  some 
thing  ebe,"  he  said,  looking  me  through  and  through 
with  those  great  dusky  eyes.  "And  I  will  tell  it," 
he  went  on,  his  grasp  on  my  hands  growing  firmer — 
"  It  is  easy  to  forgive  when  one  loves."  I  pulled  my 
hands  away,  and  burst  out  crying  again. 

"Oh,  Dr.  Elliott,  this  is  dreadful!"  I  said.  "You 
do  not,  you  cannot  love  me  I  You  are  so  much  old 
er  than  I  am !  So  grave  and  silent !  You  are  not  in 
earnest ! " 

"I  am  only  too  much  so,"  he  said,  and  went 
quietly  out 

I  went  back  to  the  nursery.     The  children  rushed 
upon  me,  and  insisted  that  I  should  "play  die."     1 
let   tnem   pull  me   about  as  they  pleased.     I   only 
wished  I  could  play  it  in  earnest. 
6 


VIII. 


JUNE  28. 

OTHER  writes  me  that  Dr.  Cabot  is  out 
of  danger,  Dr.  Elliott  having  thrown  new 
light  on  his  case,  and  performed  some 
sort  of  an  operation  that  relieved  him  at 
once.  I  am  going  home.  Nothing  would  tempt 
me  to  encounter  those  black  eyes  again.  Besides, 
the  weather  is  growing  warm,  and  Aunty  is  getting 
ready  to  go  out  of  town  with  the  children. 

JUNE  29. — Aunty  insisted  on  knowing  why 

I  was  hurrying  home  so  suddenly,  and  at  last  got  it 
out  of  me  inch  by  inch.  On  the  whole  it  was  a  re 
lief  to  have  some  one  to  speak  to. 

"Well!"  she  said,  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
in  a  fit.  of  musing. 

"Is  that  all  you  are  going  to  say,  Aunty?"  J 
ventured  to  ask  at  last. 

"No,  I  have  one  more  remark  to  add,"  she  said, 
4 and  it  is  this:  I  don't  know  which  of  you  has  be» 
(122) 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  123 

haved  most  ridiculously.  It  would  relieve  ine  to 
give  you  each  a  good  shaking." 

"1  think  Dr.  EUiott  has  behaved  ridiculously,"  I 
said,  "and  he  has  made  me  most  unhappy." 

"Unhappy!"  she  repeated.  "I  don't  wonder  you 
are  unhappy.  You  have  pained  and  wounded  one  of 
the  noblest  men  that  walks  the  earth." 

"  It  is  not  my  fault.  I  never  tried  to  make  him 
like  me." 

"  Yes,  you  did.  You  were  perfectly  bewitching 
whenever  he  came  here.  No  mortal  man  could 
help  being  fascinated." 

I  knew  this  was  not  true,  and  bitterly  resented 
Aunty's  injustice. 

"If  I  wanted  to  l  fascinate'  or  *  bewitch'  a  man," 
I  cried,  "I  should  not  choose  one  old  enough  to 
be  my  father,  nor  one  who  was  as  uninteresting, 
awkward  and  stiff  as  Dr.  Elliott.  Besides,  how 
should  I  know  he  was  not  married?  If  I  thought 
anything  about  it  at  all,  I  certainly  thought  of  him 
as  a  middle-aged  man,  settled  down  with  a  wife, 
long  ago." 

"  In  the  first  place  he  is  not  old,  or  even  middle- 
aged.  He  is  not  more  than  twenty-seven  or  eight. 
As  to  his  being  uninteresting,  perhaps  he  is  to  you, 
who  don't  know  him.  And  if  he  were  a  married 
man,  what  business  had  he  to  come  here  to  see  you, 
as  he  has  done?" 


124  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"I  did  not  know  he  came  to  see  me;  he  never 
spoke  to  me.  And  I  always  said  I  would  nevei 
marry  a  doctor." 

"  We  all  say  scores  of  things  we  live  to  repent," 
she  replied.  "But  I  must  own  that  the  doctor 
acted  quite  out  of  character  when  he  expected  you 
to  take  a  fancy  to  him  on  such  short  notice,  you 
romantic  little  thing.  Of  course  knowing  him  as 
little  as  you  do,  and  only  seeing  him  in  sick-rooms, 
you  could  not  have  done  otherwise  than  as  you  did." 

"Thank  you,  Aunty,"  I  said,  running  and  throw- 
Ing  my  arms  around  her;  "thank  you  with  all  my 
heart.  And  now  won't  you  take  back  what  you 
said  about  my  trying  to  fascinate  him?" 

"  I  suppose  I  must,  you  dear  child,"  she  said.  "  I 
was  not  half  in  earnest.  The  truth  is  I  am  so  fond 
of  you  both  that  the  idea  of  your  misunderstanding 
each  other,  annoys  me  extremely.  Why,  you  were 
made  for  each  other.  He  would  tone  you  down 
and  keep  you  straight,  and  you  would  stimulate 
him  and  keep  him  awake." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  toned  down  or  kept  straight," 
I  remonstrated.  "  I  hate  prigs  who  keep  their  wives 
in  leading  strings.  I  do  not  mean  to  marry  any 
one,  but  if  I  should  be  left  to  such  a  piece  of  "folly, 
it  must  be  to  one  who  will  take  me  for  better  for 
worser,  just  as  I  am,  and  not  as  a  wild  plant  for 
him  to  prune  till  he  has  got  it  into  a  shape  to  suit 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  125 

him.     And    now    Aunty    promise    me    one    thing 
Never  mention  Dr.  Elliott's  name  to  me  again." 

"I  shall  make  no  such  promise,"  she  replied, 
laughing.  "I  like  him,  and  I  like  to  talk  about 
him,  and  the  more  you  hate  and  despise  him  the 
more  I  shall  love  and  admire  him.  I  only  wish  my 
Lucy  were  old  enough  to  be  his  wife,  and  that  he 
could  fancy  her ;  but  he  never  could ! " 

"On  the  contrary  I  should  think  that  little  modei 
of  propriety  would  just  suit  him,"  I  exclaimed. 

"Don't  make  fun  of  Lucy,"  Aunty  said,  shaking 
her  head.  "She  is  a  dear,  good  child,  after  all." 

"After  all'1  means  this  for  what  with  my  own 
observation,  and  what  Aunty  has  told  me,  Lucy's 
portrait  is  easy  to  paint.  The  child  is  the  daughter 
of  a  man  who  died  from  a  lingering  illness  caused 
by  an  accident.  She  entered  the  family  at  a  most 
inauspicious  moment,  two  days  after  this  accident. 
From  the  outset  she  comprehended  the  situation, 
and  took  the  ground  that  a  character  of  irreproach 
able  dignity  and  propriety  became  an  infant  coming 
at  such  a  time.  She  never  cried,  never  put  impro 
per  objects  into  her  mouth,  never  bumped  her  head, 
or  scratched  herself.  Once  put  to  bed  at  night,  you 
knew  nothing  more  of  her  till  such  time  next  day  as 
you  found  it  convenient  to  attend  to  her.  If  you 
forgot  her  existence,  as  was  not  seldom  the  case 
under  the  circumstances,  she  vegetated  on,  uu- 


126  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

moved.  It  is  possible  that  pangs  of  hunger  some 
times  assailed  her,  and  it  is  a  fact  that  she  teethed, 
had  the  measles  and  the  whooping-cough.  But 
these  minute  ripples  on  her  infant  life  only  showed 
the  more  clearly,  what  a  waveless,  placid  little  sea 
it  was.  She  got  her  teeth  in  the  order  laid  down 
in  "Dewees  on  Children;"  her  measles  came  out 
on  the  appointed  day  like  well-behaved  measles  as 
they  were;  arid  retired  decently  and  in  order,  as 
measles  should.  Her  whooping-cough  had  a  well- 
bred,  methodical  air,  and  left  her  conqueror  of  the 
field.  As  the  child  passed  out  of  her  babyhood,  she 
remained  still  her  mother's  appendage  and  glory;  a 
monument  of  pure  white  marble,  displaying  to  the 
human  race  one  instance  at  least,  of  perfect  parental 
training.  Those  smooth,  round  hands  were  always 
magically  clean ;  the  dress  immaculate  and  uncrum- 
pled;  the  hair  dutifully  shining  and  tidy.  She  was 
a  model  child,  as  she  had  been  a  model  baby.  No 
slamming  of  doors,  no  litter  of  carpets,  no  pattering 
of  noisy  feet  on  the  stairs,  no  headless  dolls,  no 
soiled  or  torn  books  indicated  her  presence.  Her 
dells  were  subject  to  a  methodical  training,  not  un 
like  her  own.  They  rose,  they  were  dressed,  they 
took  the  air,  they  retired  for  the  night,  with  clock- 
Jike  regularity.  At  the  advanced  age  of  eight,  she 
ceased  occupying  herself  with  such  trifles,  and 
began  a  course  of  instructive  reading.  Her  lessons 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  127 

were  received  in  mute  submission,  like  medicine; 
so  many  doses,  so  many  times  a  day.  An  agreeable 
interlude  of  needle-work  was  afforded,  and  Dorcas- 
like,  many  were  the  garments  that  resulted  for  the 
poor.  Give  her  the  very  eyes  out  of  your  head, 
cut  off  your  right  hand  for  her  if  you  choose,  but 
don't  expect  a  gush  of  e  ithusiasm  that  would  crum 
ple  your  collar;  she  would  as  soon  strangle  her 
self  as  run  headlong  to  embrace  you.  If  she  has 
any  passions  or  emotions,  they  are  kept  under;  but 
who  asks  for  passion  in  blanc-mange,  or  seeks 
emotion  in  a  comfortable  apple-pudding? 

When  her  father  had  been  dead  a  year,  her 
mother  married  a  man  with  a  large  family  of  chil 
dren  and  a  very  small  purse.  Lucy  had  a  hard  time 
of  it,  especially  as  her  step-father,  a  quick,  impul 
sive  man,  took  a  dislike  to  her.  Aunty  had  no  dif 
ficulty  in  persuading  them  to  give  the  child  to  her. 
She  took  her  from  the  purest  motives,  and  it  does 
seem  as  if  she  ought  to  have  more  reward  than  she 
gets.  She  declares,  however,  that  she  has  all  the 
reward  she  could  ask  in  the  conviction  that  God 
accepts  this  attempt  to  please  Him. 

Lucy  is  now  nearly  fourteen;  very  large  of  her 
age,  with  a  dead  white  skin,  pale  blue  eyes,  and  a 
little  light  hair.  To  hear  her  talk  is  most  edifying. 
Uei  babieti  are  all  "babes";  she  never  begins  any 
thing  but  "commences"  it:  she  never  cries,  she 


128  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

u  weeps";  never  gets  up  in  the  morning,  but  "rises * 
Hut  what  am  I  writing  all  this  for?  Why,  to 
escape  my  own  thoughts,  which  are  anything  but 
agreeable  companions,  and  to  put  off  answering  the 
question  which  must  be  answered,  "Have  I  really 
made  a  mistake  in  refusing  Dr.  Elliott?  Could  1 
not,  in  time,  have  come  to  love  a  man  who  has  so 
honored  me?" 

JULY  5. — Here  I  am  again,  safely  at  home, 

and  very  pleasant  it  seems  to  be  with  dear  mother 
again.     I    have  told   her   about   Dr.    E.     She    says 
very  little  about  it  one  way  or  the  other. 

JULY   10. — Mother   sees   that  I   am  restless 

and  out  of  sorts.     "  What  is  it,  dear  ? "  she  asked, 
this   morning.     "Has   Dr.    Elliott   anything   to    do 
with  the  unsettled  state  you  are  in?" 

"Why,  no,  mother,"  I  answered.  "My  going 
away  has  broken  up  all  my  habits;  that's  all.  StiJl 
if  I  knew  Dr.  Elliott  did  not  care  much,  and  was 
oeginning  to  forget  it,  I  dare  say  I  should  feel 
better." 

"  If  you  were  perfectly  sure  that  you  never  could 
return  his  affection,"  she  said,  "you  were  quite 
right  in  telling  him  so  at  once.  But  if  you  had  any 
misgivings  on  the  subject,  it  would  have  been  bet 
ter  to  wait,  and  to  ask  God  to  direct  you." 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  129 

Yes,  it  would.  But  at  the  moment,  I  had  no 
misgivings.  In  my  usual  headlong  style  I  settled 
one  of  the  most  weighty  questions  of  my  life,  with 
out  reflection,  without  so  much  as  one  silent  appeal 
to  God,  to  tell  me  how  to  act.  And  now  I  have  for- 
ever  repelled,  and  thrown  away  a  heart  that  truly 
loved  me.  He  will  go  his  way  and  I  shall  go  mine. 
He  never  will  know,  what  I  am  only  just  beginning 
to  know  myself,  that  I  yearn  after  his  love  with 
unutterable  yearning. 

But  I  am  not  going  to  sit  down  in  sentimental 
despondency  to  weep  over  this  irreparable  past. 
No  human  being  could  forgive  such  folly  as  mine; 
but  God  can.  In  my  sorrowfulness  and  loneliness 
I  fly  to  Him,  and  find,  what  is  better  than  earthly 
felicity,  the  sweetest  peace.  He  allowed  me  to 
bring  upon  myself,  in  one  hasty  moment,  a  shadow 
out  of  which  I  shall  not  soon  pass,  but  He  pities 
and  He  forgives  me,  and  I  have  had  many  precious 
moments  when  I  could  say  sincerely  and  joyfully, 
"Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but  Thee,  and  there  is 
none  upon  earth  that  I  desire  besides  Thee." 

With  a  character  still  so  undisciplined  as  mine, 
I  seriously  doubt  whether  I  could  have  made  him 
happy  who  has  honored  me  with  his  unmerited 
affection.  Sometimes  I  think  I  am  as  impetuous 
and  as  quick-tempered  as  ever;  I  get  angry  with 
dear  mother,  and  with  James  even,  if  they  oppose 
6* 


130  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

me;  how  unfit,  then,  I  am  to  become  the  mistress 
of  a  household  and  the  wife  of  a  good  man! 

How  came  he  to  love  me?  I  cannot,  cannot 
imagine ! 

AUGUST  31. — The  last  day  of  the  very  hap 
piest  summer  I   ever  spent.     If  I   had  only  been 
willing  to  believe  the  testimony  of  others  I  might 
have  been  just  as  happy  long  ago.     But  I  wanted 
to  have  all  there  was  in  God  and  all  there  was  in 
the  world,  at  once,  and  there  was  a  constant,  pain 
ful  struggle  between  the  two.     I  hope  that  struggle 
is  now  over.     I  deliberately  choose  and  prefer  God. 
I   have   found   a   sweet   peace   in  trying  to  please 
Him   such  as  I  never  conceived  of.     I  would  not 
change  it  for  all  the  best  things  this   world   can 
give. 

But  I  have  a  great  deal  to  learn.  I  am  like  a 
little  child  who  cannot  run  to  get  what  he  wants, 
but  approaches  it  step  by  step,  slowly,  timidly — 
and  yet  approaches  it.  I  am  amazed  at  the 
patience  of  my  blessed  Master  and  Teacher,  but 
how  I  love  His  school ! 

SEPTEMBER. — This,   too,   has  been  a  delight 
ful  month  in  a  certain   sense.     Amelia's  marriage, 
at  which  I  had  to  be  present,  upset  me  a  little,  but 
it  was  but  a  little  ruffle  on  a  deep  sea  of  peace. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  131 

I  saw  Dr.  Cabot  to-day.  He  is  quite  well  again, 
and  speaks  of  Dr.  Elliott's  skill  with  rapture.  He 
asked  about  my  Sunday-scholars  and  my  poor 
folks,  etc.,  and  I  could  not  help  letting  out  a  little 
of  the  new  joy  that  has  taken  possession  of  me. 

"  This  is  as  it  should  be,"  he  said.  "  I  should  be 
sorry  to  see  a  person  of  your  temperament  enthu 
siastic  in  everything  save  religion.  Do  not  be 
discouraged  if  you  still  have  some  ups  and  downs. 
4 He  that  is  down  need  fear  no  fall';  but  you  are 
away  up  on  the  heights,  and  may  have  one,  now 
and  then." 

This  made  me  a  little  uncomfortable.  I  don't 
want  any  falls.  I  want  to  go  on  to  perfection. 

OCT.  1. — Laura  Cabot  came  to  see  me  to 
day,  and  seemed  very  affectionate. 

"I  hope  we  may  see  more  of  each  other  than  we 
have  done,"  she  began.  "My  father  wishes  it,  and 
so  do  I." 

Katy,  mentally. — "Ah!  he  sees  how  unworldly, 
how  devoted  I  am,  and  so  wants  Laura  under  my 
influence. 

Katy,  aloud. — "I  am  sure  that  is  very  kind." 

Laura. — "Not  at  all.  He  knows  it  will  be  pro* 
Stable  to  me  to  be  with  you.  I  get  a  good  deal 
discouraged  at  times,  and  want  a  friend  to  strength 
en  and  help  me." 


132  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

Katy,  to  herself. — "Yes,  yes,  he  thinks  me  quite 
experienced  and  trustworthy." 

Katy>  aloud. — "I  shall  never  dare  to  try  to  help 
you" 

Laura. — *'  Oh,  yes,  you  must.  I  am  so  far  benind 
you  in  Christian  experience." 

But  I  am  ashamed  to  write  down  any  more. 
After  she  had  gone  I  felt  delightfully  puffed  up  for 
a  while.  But  when  I  came  up  to  my  room  this 
evening,  and  knelt  down  to  pray,  everything  looked 
dark  and  chaotic.  God  seemed  far  away,  and  1 
took  no  pleasure  in  speaking  to  Him.  I  felt  sure 
that  I  had  done  something  or  felt  something  wrong, 
and  asked  Him  to  show  me  what  it  was.  There 
then  flashed  into  my  mind  the  remembrance  of  the 
vain,  conceited  thoughts  I  had  had  during  Laura's 
visit  and  ever  since. 

How  perfectly  contemptible!  I  have  had  a  fall 
indeed ! 

I  think  now  my  first  mistake  was  in  telling  Dr. 
Cabot  my  secret,  sacred  joys,  as  if  some  merit  of 
mine  had  earned  them  for  me.  That  gave  Satan  a 
fine  chance  to  triumph  over  me !  After  this  I  am 
determined  to  maintain  the  utmost  reserve  in  re 
spect  to  my  religious  experiences.  Nothing  is 
gained  by  running  to  tell  them,  and  much  is  lost 

I  feel  depressed  and  comfortless. 


IX. 


OCT.  10 

E  have  very  sad  news  from  aunty.  She 
says  my  uncle  is  quite  broken  down  with 
some  obscure  disease  that  has  been  creep 
ing  stealthily  along  for  months.  All  hib 
physicians  agree  that  he  must  give  up  his  business 
and  try  the  effect  of  a  year's  rest.  Dr.  Elliott  pro 
poses  his  going  to  Europe,  which  seems  to  me  about 
as  formidable  as  going  to  the  next  world.  Aunty 
makes  the  best  she  can  of  it,  but  she  says  the 
thought  of  being  separated  from  uncle  a  whole  year 
is  dreadful.  I  pray  for  her  day  and  night,  that  this 
wild  project  may  bo  given  up.  Why,  he  would  be 
on  the  ocean  ever  so  many  weeks,  exposed  to  all  tho 
discomforts  of  narrow  quarters  and  poor  food,  and 
that  just  as  winter  is  drawing  nigh ! 

OCT.  12. — 'Aunty  writes  that  the  voyage  to 

Europe  has  been  decided  on,  and  that  Dr.  Elliott  is 
to  accompany  uncle,  travel  with  him,  amuse  him, 
and  bring  him  home  a  well  man.  I  hope  Dr.  £.'• 


134  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

power  to  amuse  may  exist  somewhere,  but  must 
own  it  was  in  a  most  latent  form  when  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  him.  Poor  aunty  I  How 
much  better  it  would  be  for  her  to  go  with  uncle! 
There  are  all  the  children,  to  be  sure.  Well,  I  hope 
uncle  may  be  the  better  for  this  great  undertaking, 
but  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  it. 

OCT.    15. — Another  letter  from  aunty,   and 

new  plans  1  The  Dr.  is  to  stay  at  home,  aunty  is  to 
go  with  uncle,  and  we — mother  and  myself— are  to 
take  possession  of  the  house  and  children  during 
their  absence!  In  other  words,  all  this  is  to  be  if 
we  say  amen.  Could  anything  be  more  frightful? 
To  refuse  would  be  selfish  and  cruel.  If  we  con- 
seut  I  thrust  myself  under  Dr.  Elliott's  very  nose. 

OCT.    16. — Mother  is  surprised  that   I   can 

hesitate  one  instant.  She  seems  to  have  forgotten 
all  about  Dr.  E.  She  says  we  can  easily  find  a 
family  to  take  this  house  for  a  year,  and  that  she  is 
delighted  to  do  anything  for  aunty  that  can  be 
done. 

Nov.  4. — Here  we  are,  the  whole  thing  set 
tled.  Uncle  and  aunty  started  a  week  ago,  and  we 
are  monarchs  of  all  we  survey,  and  this  is  a  great 
deal  I  am  determined  that  mother  shall  not  be 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  13d 

worn  out  with  these  children  although  of  ,  ourse  I 
could  not  manage  them  without  her  advice  and 
help.  It  is  to  be  hoped  they  won't  all  have  the 
measles  in  a  body,  or  anything  of  that  sort;  I  am 
sure  it  would  be  annoying  to  Dr.  E.  to  come  here 
now. 

Nov.  25. —  Of  course  the  baby  must  go  on 

teething  if  only  to  have  the  doctor  sent  for  to  lance 
his  gums.     I  told  mother  I  was  sure  I  could  not  be 
present  when  this  was  being  done,  so,  though  she 
looked  surprised,  and  said  people  should  accustom 
themselves  to  such  things,  she  volunteered  to  hold 
baby  herself. 

Nov.  26. — The  baby  was   afraid  of  mother, 

not  being  used  to  her,  so  she  sent  for  me.  As  I 
entered  the  room  she  gave  him  to  me  with  an 
apology  for  doing  so,  since  I  shrank  from  witness 
ing  the  operation.  What  must  Dr.  E.  think  I  am 
made  of  if  I  can't  bear  to  see  a  child's  gums  lanced  ? 
However,  it  is  my  own  fault  that  he  thinks  me  such 
a  coward,  for  I  made  mother  think  me  one.  It  was 
very  embarrassing  to  hold  baby  and  have  the  doc 
tor's  face  so  close  to  mine.  I  really  wonder  mother 
should  not  see  how  awkwardly  I  am  situated  hera 

Nov.  27. —  We  have   a  good   many  visitors, 


136  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

friends  of  uncle  and  aunty.  How  uninteresting 
most  people  are!  They  all  say  the  same  thing, 
namely,  how  strange  that  aunty  had  courage  to 
undertake  such  a  voyage,  and  to  leave  her  children, 
etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  and  what  was  Dr.  Elliott  thinking  of 
to  let  them  go,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Dr.  Embury  called  to-day,  with  a  pretty  little 
fresh  creature,  his  new  wife,  who  hangs  on  his  arm 
like  a  work-bag.  He  is  Dr.  Elliott's  intimate  friend, 
and  spoke  of  him  very  warmly,  and  so  did  his  wife, 
who  says  she  has  known  him  always,  as  they  were 
born  and  brought  up  in  the  same  village.  I  wonder 
he  did  not  marry  her  himself,  instead  of  leaving  her 
for  Dr.  Embury! 

She  says  he,  Dr.  Elliott  I  mean,  was  the  most  de 
voted  son  she  ever  saw,  and  that  he  deserves  his 
present  success  because  he  has  made  such  sacrifices 
for  his  parents.  I  never  met  any  one  whom  I  liked 
eo  well  on  so  short  acquaintance — I  mean  Mrs. 
Embury,  though  you  might  fancy,  you  poor  de 
luded  journal  you,  that  I  meant  somebody  else. 

Nov.  30. —  I   have    so    much    to    do   that    I 

Lave  little  time  for  writing.  The  way  the  children 
wear  out  their  shoes  and  stockings,  the  speed  wilh 
which  their  hair  grows,  the  way  they  bump  theii 
tieads  and  pinch  their  fingers,  and  the  insatiable  do 
mand  for  stories,  is  something  next  to  miraculoug 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  137 

Not  a  day  passes  that  somebody  doesn't  need  some 
thing  bought;  that  somebody  else  doesn't  choke 
itself,  and  that  I  don't  have  to  tell  stories  till  1  feel 
my  intellect  reduced  to  the  size  of  a  pea.  If  ever 
I  was  alive  and  wide  awake,  however,  it  is  just  now, 
and  in  spite  of  some  vague  shadows  of,* I  don't 
know  what,  I  am  very  happy  indeed.  So  is  dear 
mother.  She  and  the  doctor  have  become  bosom 
friends.  He  keeps  her  making  beef-tea,  scraping 
lint,  and  boiling  calves'  feet  for  jelly,  till  the  house 
smells  like  an  hospital. 

I  suppose  he  thinks  me  a  poor  selfish,  frivolous 
girl,  whom  nothing  would  tempt  to  raise  a  finger 
for  his  invalids.  But,  of  course,  I  do  not  care  what 
he  thinks. 

DEC.  4. — Dr.  Elliott  came  this  morning  to 

ask  mother  to  go  with  him  to  see  a  child  who  had 
met  with  a  horrible  accident.  She  turned  pale,  and 
pressed  her  lips  together,  but  went  at  once  to  get 
ready.  Then  my  long-suppressed  wrath  burst  out 

"How  can  you  ask  poor  mother  to  go  and  see 
such  sights  ?  "  I  cried.  "  You  must  think  her  noth 
ing  but  a  stone,  if  you  suppose  that  after  the  way 
iii  which  my  father  died — " 

"  It  was  indeed  most  thoughtless  in  me,"  he  inter 
rupted;  "but  your  mother  is  such  a  rare  woman,  so 
decided  and  self-controlled,  yet  so  gentle,  so  full  of 


138  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

tender  sympathy,  that  I  hardly  know  where  to 
look  for  just  the  help  I  need  to-day.  If  you  could 
see  this  poor  child,  even  you  would  justify  me." 

"Even  you!"  you  monster  of  selfishness,  heart  of 
Btone,  floating  bubble,  "even  you"  "would  justify 
it!"  ' 

How  cruel,  how  unjust,  how  unforgiving  he  is! 

I  rushed  out  of  the  room,  and  cried  until  I  wan 
tired. 

DEO.  6. — Mother  says  she  feels  really  grate 
ful  to  Dr.  E.  for  taking  her  to  see  that  child,  and  to 
help  soothe  and  comfort  it  while  he  went  through 
with  a  severe,  painful  operation  which  she  would 
not  describe,  because  she  fancied  I  looked  pale.  I 
said  I  should  think  the  child's  mother  the  most 
proper  person  to  soothe  it  on  such  an  occasion. 

"The  poor  thing  has  no  mother,"  she  said,  re 
proachfully.  "What  has  got  into  you,  Kate?  You 
do  not  seem  at  all  like  yourself." 

"I  should  think  you  had  enough  to  do  with  this 
great  house  to  keep  in  order,  so  many  mouths  to 
fill,  and  so  many  servants  to  oversee,  without  wear 
ing  yourself  out  with  nursing  all  Dr.  Elliott's  poor 
folks,"  I  said,  gloomily. 

"The  more  I  have  to  do,  the  happier  I  am,'  she 
replied.  "Dear  Katy,  the  old  wound  isn't  healed 
yet,  and  I  like  to  be  with  those  who  have  wounds 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  13$ 

and  bruises  of  their  own.  And  Dr.  Elliott  seems  to 
have  iiviiied  this  by  instinct." 

T  ran  and  kissed  her  dear,  pale  face,  which  grows 
more  beautiful  every  day.  No  wonder  she  misses 
father  so!  He  loved  and  honored  her  beyond  de 
scription,  and  never  forgot  one  of  those  little  cour 
tesies  which  must  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with  a 
wife's  happiness.  People  said  of  him  that  he  was  a 
gentleman  of  the  old  school,  and  that  race  is  dying 
out 

I  feel  a  good  deal  out  of  sorts  myself.  Oh,  I  do 
so  wish  to  get  above  myself  and  all  my  childish, 
petty  ways,  and  to  live  in  a  region  where  there  is 
no  temptation  and  no  sin ! 

DEC.  22. — I  have  been  to  see  Mrs.  Embury 

to-day.  She  did  not  receive  me  as  cordially  as  usual, 
and  I  very  soon  resolved  to  come  away.  She  de 
tained  me,  however. 

"  Would  you  mind  my  speaking  to  you  on  a  cer 
tain  subject  ? "  she  asked,  with  some  embarrassment 

1  felt  myself  flush  up. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  meddle  with  affairs  that  don't 
concern  me,"  she  went  on,  "but  Dr.  Elliott  and  I 
have  been  intimate  friends  all  our  lives.  And  his 
disappointment  has  really  distressed  me." 

One  of  my  moods  came  on,  and  I  couldn't  speak 
ft  word. 


140  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"  Yon  are  not  at  all  the  sort  of  a  girl  1  supposed 
he  would  fancy,"  she  continued.  "He  always  has 
said  he  was  waiting  to  find  some  one  just  like  hia 
mother,  and  she  is  one  of  the  gentlest,  meekest-, 
sweetest  and  fairest  among  women." 

"  You  ought  to  rejoice  then  that  he  has  escaped 
the  snare,"  I  said,  in  a  husky  voice,  "  and  is  free  to 
marry  his  ideal,  when  he  finds  her." 

"But  that  is  just  what  troubles  me.  He  is  not 
free.  He  does  not  attach  himself  readily,  and  I  am 
afraid  that  it  will  be  a  long,  long  time  before  he  gets 
over  this  unlucky  passion  for  you." 

"  Passion ! "  I  cried,  contemptuously. 

She  looked  at  me  with  some  surprise,  and  then 
went  on. 

"  Most  girls  would  jump  at  the  chance  of  getting 
Buch  a  husband." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  particularly  care  to  be 
classed  with  'most  girls,'"  I  replied,  loftily. 

"  But  if  you  only  knew  him  as  well  as  I  do.  He 
is  so  noble,  so  disinterested,  and  is  so  beloved  by 
his  patients.  I  could  tell  you  scores  of  anecdotes 
about  him  that  would  show  just  what  he  is." 

14 Thank  you,"  I  said,  "I  think  we  have  discussed 
Dr.  Elliott  quite  enough  already.  I  cannot  say 
that  he  has  elevated  himself  in  my  opinion  by  mak 
ing  you  take  up  the  cudgels  in  his  defence." 

"You  do  him  injustice,  when  you  say  that,"  she 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  141 

cried.  "His  sister,  the  only  person  to  whom  he 
confided  the  state  of  things,  begged  me  to  find  out, 
if  I  could,  whether  you  had  any  other  attachment, 
and  if  her  brother's  case  was  quite  hopeless.  But 
[  am  sorry  I  undertook  the  task,  as  it  has  annoyed 
you  so  much.' 

I  came  away  a  good  deal  ruffled.  When  I  got 
home  mother  said  she  was  glad  I  had  been  out,  at 
last,  for  a  little  recreation,  and  that  she  wished  I 
did  not  confine  myself  so  to  the  children.  I  said 
that  I  did  not  confine  myself  more  than,  aunty  did 

"But  that  is  different,"  mother  objected.  "She 
is  their  own  mother,  and  love  helps  her  to  bear  her 
burden." 

"  So  it  does  me,"  I  returned.  "  I  lore  the  chil 
dren  exactly  as  if  they  were  my  own." 

"That,"  she  said,  "is  impossible." 

"I  ceitainly  do,"  I  persisted. 

Mother  would  not  dispute  with  me,  though  I 
wished  she  would. 

"A  mother,"  she  went  on,  "receives  her  chil 
dren  one  at  a  time,  and  gradually  adjusts  herself  to 
gradually  increasing  burdens.  But  you  take  a  whole 
houseful  upon  you  at  once,  and  I  arn  sure  it  is  too 
much  for  you.  You  do  not  look  or  act  like  your 
self." 

"  It  isn't  the  children,"  I  said. 

"What  is  ii,  then?" 


142  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"Why,  it's  nothing,'  I  said  pettishly. 

"  I  must  say,  dear,"  said  mother,  not  noticing  my 
manner,  "  that  your  wonderful  devotion  to  the  chil 
dren,  aside  from  its  effect  on  your  health  and  tem 
per,  has  given  me  great  delight." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  I  said. 

"  Very  few  girls  of  your  age  would  give  up  their 
whole  time,  as  you  do  to  such  work." 

"That  is  because  very  few  girls  are  as  fond  of 
children  as  I  am.  There  is  no  virtue  in  doing  ex 
actly  what  one  likes  best  to  do." 

"There,  go  away,  you  contrary  child,"  said 
mother,  laughing.  "If  you  won't  be  praised,  you 
won't." 

So  I  came  up  here  and  moped  a  little.  I  don't 
see  what  ails  me. 

But  there  is  an  under-current  of  peace  that  is 
not  entirely  disturbed  by  any  outside  event.  In 
spite  of  my  follies,  and  my  short-comings,  I  do 
believe  that  God  loves  and  pities  me,  and  will  yet 
perfect  that  which  concerneth  me.  It  is  a  great 
mystery.  But  so  is  everything. 

Dr.  Elliott  to  Mrs.  Crofton: 

.  .  .  And  now,  my  dear  friend,  having  issued 
my  usual  bulletin  of  health,  you  may  feel  quite  at 
ease  about  your  dear  children,  and  I  come  to  a 
point  in  your  letter  which  I  would  gladly  pass  over 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  143 

in  silence.     But  this  would  be  but  a  poor  return  for 
the  interest  you  express  in  my  affairs. 

Both  ladios  are  devoted  to  your  little  flock,  and 
Miss  Mortimer  seems  not  to  have  a  thought  but  for 
them.  The  high  opinion  I  formed  of  her  at  the  out 
set  is  more  than  justified  by  all  I  see  of  her  daily, 
household  life.  I  know  what  her  faults  are,  for  she 
seems  to  take  delight  in  revealing  them.  But  I  also 
know  her  rare  virtues,  and  what  a  wealth  of  affec 
tion  she  has  to  bestow  on  the  man  who  is  so  happy 
as  to  win  her  heart.  But  I  shall  never  be  that  man. 
Her  growing  aversion  to  me  makes  me  dread  a 
gammons  to  your  house,  and  I  have  hardly  manli 
ness  enough  to  conceal  the  pain  this  gives  me.  I 
entreat  you,  therefore,  never  again  to  press  this 
subject  upon  me.  After  all,  I  would  not,  if  I  could, 
dispense  with  the  ministry  of  disappointment  and 
unrest. 

Mrs.  Crofton,  in  reply: 

...  So  she  hates  you,  does  she  ?  I  am  charm 
ed  to  hear  it.  Indifference  would  be  an  alarming 
symptom,  but  good,  cordial  hatred,  or  what  looks 
like  it,  is  a  most  hopeful  sign.  The  next  chance 
you  get  to  see  her  alone,  assure  her  that  you  never 
shall  repeat  your  first  offence.  If  nothing  comes  of 
it,  I  am  not  a  woman,  and  never  was  one;  nor  ia 
she," 


144  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

-  MARCH  25,  1836.— The  New  Year  and  my 
birthday  have  come  and  gone,  and  this  is  the  first 
moment  I  could  find  for  writing  down  all  that  haa 
happened. 

The  day  after  my  last  date  I  was  full  of  serious, 
earnest  thoughts,  of  new  desires  to  live,  without 
one  reserve,  for  God.  I  was  smarting  under  the 
remembrance  of  my  folly  at  Mrs.  Embury's,  and 
with  a  sense  of  vague  disappointment  and  discom 
fort,  and  had  to  fly  closer  than  ever  to  Him.  In 
the  evening  I  thought  I  would  go  to  the  usual 
weekly  service.  It  is  true  I  don't  like  prayer-meet 
ings,  and  that  is  a  bad  sign,  I  am  afraid.  But  I  am 
determined  to  go  where  good  people  go,  and  see  if 
I  can't  learn  to  like  what  they  like. 

Mother  went  with  me,  of  course. 

What  was  my  surprise  to  find  that  Dr.  E.  was  to 
preside !  I  had  no  idea  that  he  was  that  sort  of  a 
man. 

The  hymns  they  sang  were  beautiful,  and  did  me 
good.  So  was  his  prayer.  If  all  prayers  were  like 
that,  I  am  sure  I  should  like  evening  meetings  as 
much  as  I  now  dislike  them.  He  so  evidently 
spoke  to  God  in  it,  and  as  if  he  were  used  to  such 
speaking. 

He  then  made  a  little  address  on  the  ministry  of 
disappointments,  as  he  called  it.  He  spoke  so 
cheerfully  and  hopefully  that  I  began  to  see  almost 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  145 

for  the  first  time,  God's  reason  for  the  rJfetty  trials  and 
crosses  that  help  to  make  up  every  day  of  one's  life. 
He  said  there  were  few  who  were  not  constantly 
disappointed  with  themselves,  with  their  slow  pro 
gress,  their  childishness  and  weakness;  disappointed 
with  their  friends  who,  strangely  enough,  were 
never  quite  perfect  enough,  and  disappointed  with 
the  world,  which  was  always  promising  so  much 
and  giving  so  little.  Then  he  urged  to  a  wise  and 
patient  consent  to  this  discipline,  which,  if  rightly 
used,  would  help  to  temper  and  strengthen  the  soul 
against  the  day  of  sorrow  and  bereavement.  But 
I  am  not  doing  him  justice  in  this  meagre  report; 
there  was  something  almost  heavenly  in  his  expres 
sion  which  words  cannot  describe. 

Coming  out  I  heard  some  one  ask,  uWho  was 
that  young  clergyman  ?  "  and  the  answer,  "  Oh,  that 
is  only  a  doctor!" 

Well !  the  next  week  I  went  again,  with  mother. 
We  had  hardly  taken  our  seats  when  Dr.  E. 
marched  in  with  the  SAveetest  looking  little  creature 
I  ever  saw.  He  was  so  taken  up  with  her  that  he 
did  not  observe  either  mother  or  myself.  As  she 
sat  by  my  side  I  could  not  see  her  full  face,  but  her 
profile  was  nearly  perfect.  Her  eyes  were  of  that 
lovely  blue  one  sees  in  violets,  and  the  skies,  with 
long,  soft  eye  lashes,  and  her  complexion  was  as 
pure  as  a  baby's.  Yet  she  was  not  one  of  yoiir 


146  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

doll  beauties;  her  face  expressed  both  feeling  and 
character.  They  sang  together  from  the  same 
book,  though  I  offered  her  a  share  of  mine.  Of 
course,  when  people  do  that  it  can  mean  but  one 
thing. 

So  it  seems  he  has  forgotten  me,  and  consoled 
himself  with  this  pretty  little  thing.  No  doubt  she 
is  like  his  mother,  that  "gentlest,  meekest,  sweetest 
and  fairest  among  women  !  " 

Now  if  any  body  should  be  sick,  and  he  should 
come  here,  I  thought,  what  would  become  of  me? 
I  certainly  could  not  help  showing  that  a  love  that 
can  so  soon  take  up  with  a  new  object,  could  not 
have  been  a  sentiment  of  much  depth. 

It  is  not  pleasant  to  lose  even  a  portion  of  one's 
respect  and  esteem  for  another. 

The  next  day  mother  went  to  visit  an  old  friend 
of  hers,  who  has  a  beautiful  place  outside  of  the 
city.  The  baby's  nurse  had  ironing  to  do,  so  I 
promised  to  sit  in  the  nursery  till  it  was  finished. 
Lucy  came,  with  her  books,  to  sit  with  me.  She 
always  follows  me  like  my  shadow.  After  a  while 
Mrs.  Embury  called.  I  hesitated  a  iittle  about 
trusting  the  child  to  Lucy's  care,  for  though  her 
prim  ways  have  given  her  the  reputation  of  being 
wise  beyond  her  years,  I  observe  that  she  is  apt  to 
got  into  trouble  which  a  quiok-witted  child  would 
either  avoid  or  jump  out  of  in  a  twinkling.  How- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  147 

ever,  children  are  often  left  to  much  younger  girls, 
so,  with  many  cautions,  I  went  down,  resolving  to 
stay  only  a  few  moments. 

But  I  wanted  so  much  to  know  all  about  that 
pretty  little  friend  of  Dr.  E's  that  I  let  Mrs.  Em- 
bury  stay  on  and  on,  though  not  a  ray  of  light  did 
I  get  for  my  pains.  At  last  I  heard  Lucy's  step 
coming  down  stairs. 

"Cousin  Katy,"  she  said,  entering  the  room  with 
her  usual  propriety,  "I  was  seated  by  the  window, 
engaged  with  my  studies,  and  the  children  were 
playing  about,  as  usual,  when  suddenly  I  heard  a 
shriek,  and  one  of  them  ran  past  me,  all  in  a  blaze 
and—" 

I  believe  I  pushed  her  out  of  my  way  as  I  rushed 
up  stairs,  for  I  took  it  for  granted  I  should  meet 
the  little  figure  all  in  a  blaze,  coming  to  meet  me. 
But  I  found  it  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  the  flames  ex 
tinguished.  Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Embury  had  roused 
the  whole  house,  and  everybody  came  running  up 
etairs. 

"Get  the  doctor,  some  of  you,"  I  cried,  clasping 
the  poor  little  writhing  form  in  my  arms. 

And  then  I  looked  to  see  which  of  them  it  was, 
and  found  it  was  aunty's  pet  lamb,  everybody's 
pet  lamb,  our  little  loving,  gentle  Emma. 

Dr  Elliott  must  have  corne  on  wings,  for  I  had 
oot  time  to  bo  'mpatient  for  his  arrival.  He  was  as 


148  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

fender  as  a  woman  with  Emma;  we  cut  off  and 
loie  off  her  clothes  wherever  the  fire  had  touched 
hor.  and  he  dressed  the  burns  with  his  own  hands. 
He  did  not  speak  a  word  to  me,  or  I  to  him.  This 
time  he  did  not  find  it  necessary  to  advise  me  to 
control  myself.  I  was  as  cold  and  hard  as  a  atone. 

But  when  poor-  little  Emma's  piercing  shrieks 
began  to  subside,  and  she  came  a  little  under  the 
influence  of  some  soothing  drops  he  had  given  her 
at  the  outset,  I  began  to  feel  that  sensation  in  the 
back  of  my  neck  that  leads  to  conquest  over  the 
most  stubborn  and  the  most  heroic.  I  had  just 
time  to  get  Emma  into  the  doctor's  arms,  and  then 
down  I  went.  I  got  over  it  in  a  minute,  and  was 
up  again  before  any  one  had  time  to  come  to  the 
rescue.  But  Dr.  E.  gave  Emma  to  Mrs.  Embury, 
who  had  taken  off  her  things  and  been  crying  all 
the  time,  and  said  in  a  low  voice, 

"I  beg  you  will  now  leave  the  room,  and  lio 
down.  And  do  not  feel  obliged  to  see  me  when  1 
visit  the  child.  That  annoyance,  at  least,  you 
ihould  spare  yourself." 

"No  consideration  shall  make  me  neglect  little 
Emma,"  I  replied,  defiantly. 

B}  this  time  Mrs.  Embury  had  rocked  her  tc 
sleep,  and  she  lay,  pale  and  with  an  air  of  complete 
exhaustion,  in  her  arms. 

"You  must  lie  down  now,   Miss  Mortimer,"  Dr 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  149 

Elliott  said,  as  he  rose  to  go.  "  I  will  return  in  a 
few  hours  to  see  how  you  both  do." 

He  stood  looking  at  Emma,  but  did  not  go. 
Then  Mrs.  Embury  asked  the  question  1  had  not 
dared  to  ask. 

"Is  the  poor  child  in  danger?" 

"I  cannot  say;  I  trust  not.  Miss  Mortimer'a 
presence  of  ^  mind  in  extinguishing  the  flames  at 
once,  has,  I  hope,  saved  its  life." 

"It  was  not  my  presence  of  mind,  it  was  Lucy's !>" 
I  cried,  eagerly.  Oh,  how  I  envied  her  for  beihg 
the  heroine,  and  for  the  surprised,  deliguted  smile 
with  which  he  went  and  took  her  hand,  saying,  *  I 
congratulate  you,  Lucy!  How  your  mother  will 
rejoice  at  this !  " 

I  tried  to  think  of  nothing  but  poor  little  En  ma, 
and  of  the  reward  aunty  had  had  for  her  kindness 
to  Lucy.  But  I  thought  of  myself,  and  how  likely 
it  was  that  under  the  same  circumstances  I  should 
have  been  beside  myself,  and  done  nothing.  This, 
and  many  other  emotions,  made  me  burst  out  cry 
ing. 

"Yes,  cry,  cry,  with  all  your  heart,"  said  Mrs. 
Embury,  laying  Emma  gently  down,  and  coming  to 
get  me  into  her  arms.  "  It  will  do  you  good,  poor 
child!" 

She  cried  with  me,  till  at  last  I  could  lie  down 
and  try  to  sleep. 


150  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

Well,  the  days  and  the  weeks  were  very  long  af 
ter  that 

Dear  mother  had  a  hard  time,  what  with  hei 
anxiety  about  Emma,  and  my  crossness  and  unrea 
sonableness. 

Dr.  Elliott  came  and  went,  came  and  went.  At 
last  he  said  all  danger  was  over,  and  that  our  pa 
tient  little  darling  would  get  well.  But  his  visito 
did  not  diminish;  he  came  twice  and  three  times 
every  day.  Sometimes  I  hoped  he  would  tell  us 
about  his  new  flame,  and  sometimes  I  felt  that  I 
could  not  hear  her  mentioned.  One  day  mother 
was  so  unwell  that  I  had  to  help  him  dress  Emma's 
burns,  and  I  could  not  help  saying: 

"  Even  a  mother's  gentlest  touch,  full  of  love  as 
it  is,  is  almost  rough  compared  with  that  of  one 
trained  to  such  careful  handling  as  you  are." 

He  looked  gratified,  but  said: 

"I  am  glad  you  begin  to  find  that  even  stones 
feel,  sometimes." 

Another  time  something  was  said  about  the  fickle 
ness  of  women.  Mrs.  Embury  began  it.  I  fired 
up,  of  course. 

He  seemed  astonished  at  my  attack 

"  I  said  nothing,"  he  declared. 

"No,  but  you  looked  a  good  many  things.  Now 
the  fact  is,  women  are  not  fickle.  When  they  lose 
what  they  value  most,  they  find  it  impossible  to  re- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  151 

place  it.  But  men  console  themselves  with  the 
Li  rat  good  thing  that  comes  along." 

I  dare  say  I  spoke  bitterly,  for  I  was  thinking  how 

soon  Ch ,  I  mean  somebody,  replaced  me  in  his 

shallow  heart,  and  how,  with  equal  speed,  Dr.  El 
liott  had  helped  himself  to  a  new  love. 

"I  do  not  like  these  sweeping  assertions,"  said 
Dr.  Elliott,  looking  a  good  deal  annoyed. 

"I  have  to  say  what  I  think,"  I  persisted. 

"  It  is  well  to  think  rightly,  then,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"By  the  by,  have  you  heard  from  Helen?"  Mrs, 
Embury  most  irrelevantly  asked. 

"Yes,  I  heard  yesterday." 

"I  suppose  you  will  be  writing  her,  then?  Will 
you  enclose  a  little  note  from  me?  Or  rather  let 
me  have  the  least  corner  of  your  sheet  ? " 

I  was  shocked  at  her  want  of  delicacy.  Of  course 
this  Helen  must  be  the  new  love,  and  how  could  a 
woman  with  two  grains  of  sense,  imagine  he  would 
want  to  spare  her  a  part  of  his  sheet ! 

I  felt  tired  and  irritated.  As  soon  as  Dr.  Elliott 
Lad  gone,  I  began  to  give  her  a  good  setting  down. 

"  I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears,"  I  said,  "  when 
1  heard  you  ask  leave  to  write  on  Dr.  Elliott's 
sheet." 

"No  wonder,"  she  said  laughing.  "I  suppose 
yon  never  knew  what  it  was  to  have  to  count  every 
shilling,  and  to  deny  yourself  the  pleasure  of  writ 


152  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

ing  to  a  friend  because  of  what  it  would  cost.     I'm 
sure  I  never  did  till  I  was  married." 
'  '**  But  to  ask  him  to  let  you  help  write  his  love- 
Mters,"  I  objected. 

'  "  Ah !  is  that  the  way  the  wind  blows  ?  "  she  cried, 
nodding  her  pretty  little  head.  "  Well  then,  let  me 
relieve  your  mind,  my  dear,  by  informing  you  that 
this  'love-letter*  is  to  his  sister,  my  dearest  friend, 
and  the  sweetest  little  thing  you  ever  saw." 

'^*  Oh ! "  I  said,  and  immediately  felt  quite  rested, 
and  quite  like  myself. 

Like  myself!     And  who  is  she,  pray? 

Two  souls  dwell  in  my  poor  little  body,  and  which 
cli"1  them  is  me,  and  which  of  them  isn't,  it  would  be 
hard  to  tell.     This  is  the  way  they  behave: 
SCENE  1st. 

Katy,  to  the  other  creature,  whom  I  will  call 
Kate. — Your  mother  looks  tired,  and  you  have  been 
very  cross.  Kun  and  put  your  arms  around  her,  and 
tell  her  how  you  love  her. 

Kate. — Oh  I  can't;  it  would  look  queer.  I  don't 
like  palaver.  Besides,  who  would  not  be  cross  who 

felt  as  I  do  ? 

SCENE  2d. 

Katy. — Little  Emma  has  nothing  to  do,  and  ought 
to  be  amused.  Tell  her  a  story,  do. 

Kale.— I  am  tired,  and  need  to  be  amused  my- 
Belf. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  153 

Katy. — But  the  dear  little  thing  is  so  patient,  and 
bas  suffered  so  much? 

Kate. — Well,  I  have  suffered,  too.  If  she  had  not 
climbed  up  on  the  fender  she  would  not  have  got 
burned. 

SCENE  3d. 

Kate. — You  are  very  irritable  to-day.  You  had 
better  go  up  stairs  to  your  room  and  pray  for  pa 
tience. 

Katy. — One  can't  be  always  praying.     I  don't  feel 

like  it. 

SCENE  4th. 

Katy. — You  treat  Dr.  Elliott  shamefully.  I  should 
think  he  would  really  avoid  you  as  you  avoid  him. 

Kate. — Don't  let  me  hear  his  name.  I  don't  avoid 
him. 

Katy. — You  do  not  deserve  his  good  opinion. 

Kate.— Yes,  I  do. 

SCENE  5th. 

Just  awake  in  the  morning. 

Katy. — Oh,  dear!  how  hateful  I  am!  I  am  cross 
ajid  selfish,  and  domineering,  and  vain.  I  think  of 
myself  the  whole  time;  I  behave  like  a  heroine 
when  Dr.  Elliott  is  present,  and  like  a  naughty, 
spoiled  child  when  he  is  not.  Poor  mother!  how 
can  she  endure  me?  As  to  my  piety,  it  is  worse 
than  none 

Kate,  a  tew  hours  later. — Well,  nobody  can  deny 
7* 


154  STEFFING  HEAVENWARD. 

fchat  I  have  a  real  gift  in  managing  children !  And 
I  am  very  lovable,  or  mother  wouldn't  be  so  fond 
of  me.  I  am  always  pleasant  unless  I  am  sick,  or 
worried,  and  my  temper  is  not  half  so  hasty  as  it 
used  to  be.  I  never  think  of  myself,  but  am  all 
the  time  doing  something  for  others.  As  to  Dr. 
E.,  I  am  thankful  to  say  that  I  have  never  stooped 
to  attract  him  by  putting  on  airs  and  graces.  He 
sees  me  just  as  I  am.  And  I  am  very  devout.  1 
love  to  read  good  books  and  to  be  with  good  peo 
ple.  I  pray  a  great  deal.  The  bare  thought  of 
doing  wrong  makes  me  shudder.  Mother  is  proud 
of  me,  and  I  don't  wonder.  Very  few  girls  would 
have  behaved  as  I  did  when  Emma  was  burned. 
Perhaps  I  am  not  as  sweet  as  some  people.  I  am 
glad  of  it.  I  hate  sweet  people.  I  have  great 
strength  of  character,  which  is  much  better,  and  am 
certainly  very  high-toned. 

But,  my  poor  journal,  you  can't  stand  any  more 
such  stuff,  can  you?  But  tell  me  one  thing,  am  ] 
Katy,  or  am  I  Kate? 


X. 


APRIL  20. 

ESTERDAY  I  felt  better  than  I  have  done 
since  the  accident.  I  ran^  about  the  house 
quite  cheerily,  for  me.  I  wanted  to  see 
mother  for  something,  and  flew  singing 
into  the  parlor,  where  I  had  left  her  shortly  before. 
But  she  was  not  there,  and  Dr.  Elliott  was.  I 
started  back,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  but 
he  detained  me. 

"  Come  in,  I  beg  of  you,"  he  said,  his  voice  grow 
ing  hoarser  and  hoarser.  "  Let  us  put  a  stop  to  this." 
"To  what?"  I  asked,  going  nearer  and  nearer, 
and  looking  up  into  his  face,  which  was  quite  pale. 
"  To  your  evident  terror  of  being  alone  with  me, 
of  hearing  me  speak  Let  me  assure  you,  once  for 
all,  that  nothing  would  tempt  me  to  annoy  you  by 
urging  myself  upon  you,  as  you  seem  to  fear  I  may 
be  tempted  to  do.  I  cannot  force  you  to  love  me, 
nor  would  I  if  I  could.  If  you  ever  want  a  friend 
you  will  find  one  in  me.  But  do  not  think  of  me 
as  your  lover,  or  treat  me  as  if  I  were  always  lying 

(155) 


156  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

in  wait  for  a  chance  to  remind  you  of  it  That  1 
shall  never  do,  never." 

"Oh,  ro,  of  course  not!"  I  broke  forth,  my  face 
all  in  a  glow,  and  tears  of  mortification  raining  down 
my  cheeks.  "I  knew  you  did  not  care  for  me!  I 
knew  you  had  got  over  it ! " 

I  don't  know  which  of  us  began  it,  I  don't  think 
he  did,  and  I  am  sure  I  did  not,  but  the  next  mo 
ment  I  was  folded  all  up  in  his  great  long  arms,  and 
and  a  new  life  had  begun ! 

Mother  opened  the  door  not  long  after,  and  see 
ing  what  was  going  on,  trotted  away  on  her  dear 
old  feet  as  fast  as  she  could. 

APRIL  21. — I   am  too  happy  to  write  jour 
nals.     To  think  how  we  love  each  other ! 

Mother  behaves  beautifully. 

APRIL    25. — One   does   not   feel   like   saying 

much  about  it,  when  one  is  as  happy  as  I  am.     1 
walk  the  streets  as  one  treading  on  air.     I  fly  about 
the  house  as  on  wings.     I  kiss  everybody  I  see. 

Now  that  I  look  at  Ernest  (for  he  makes  me  call 
him  so)  wilh  unprejudiced  eyes,  I  wonder  I  ever 
thought  him  clumsy.  And  how  ridiculous  it  was 
in  me  to  confound  his  dignity  and  manliness  with 
age! 

It  is   very   odd,   however,    that   such   a   cautious, 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  157 

well-balanced  man  should  have  fallen  in  love  with 
me  that  day  at  Sunday-school.  And  still  strangei 
that  with  my  headlong,  impulsive  nature  I  deliber 
ately  walked  into  love  with  him! 

I  believe  we  shall  never  get  through  with  what 
we  have  to  say  to  each  other.  I  am  afraid  we  are 
rather  selfish  to  leave  mother  to  herself  every 
evening. 

SEPT.  5. — This  has  been  a  delightful  sum 
mer.  To  be  sure,  we  had  to  take  the  children  to 
the  country  for  a  couple  of  months,  but  Ernest's 
letters  are  almost  better  than  Ernest  himself.  1 
have  written  enough  to  him  to  fill  a  dozen  books. 
We  are  going  back  to  the  city  now.  In  his  last 
letter  Ernest  says  he  has  been  home,  and  that  his 
mother  is  delighted  to  hear  of  his  engagement. 
He  says,  too,  that  he  went  to  see  an  old  lady,  one 
of  the  friends  of  his  boyhood,  to  tell  the  news  to 
her. 

"  When  I  told  her,"  he  goes  on,  "that  I  had  found 
the  most  beautiful,  the  noblest,  the  most  loving  of 
human  beings,  she  only  said,  '  Of  course,  of  course ! 

"Now,  you  know,  dear,  that  it  is  not  at  all  of 
course,  but  the  very  strangest,  most  wonderful 
event  in  the  history  of  the  world." 

And  then  he  described  a  scene  he  had  just  wit 
nessed  at  the  death  bed  of  a  young  girl,  of  mj  -iwn 


15£  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

age,  who  left  this  world  and  every  possible  earthly 
joy,  with  a  delimit  in  the  going  to  be  with  Christ, 
that  made  him  really  eloquent.  Oh,  haw  glad  1 
am  that  God  has  cast  in  my  lot  with  a  man  whose 
whole  business  is  to  minister  to  others !  I  am  sure 
t  his  will,  of  itself,  keep  him  unworldly  and  unselfish. 
JIow  delicious  it  is  to  love  such  a  character,  and 
how  happy  I  shall  be  to  go  with  him  to  sick-rooms 
and  to  dying  beds !  He  has  already  taught  me  that 
lessons  learned  in  such  scenes  far  outweigh  in  value 
what  books  and  sermons,  even,  can  teach. 

And  now,  my  dear  old  journal,  let  me  tell  you  a 
secret  that  has  to  do  with  life,  and  not  with  death. 

I  am  going  to  be  married! 

To  think  that  I  am  always  to  be  with  Ernest! 
To  sit  at  the  table  with  him  every  day,  to.  pray 
with  him,  to  go  to  church  with  him,  to  have  him 
all  mine !  I  am  sure  that  there  is  not  another  man 
on  earth  whom  I  could  love  as  I  love  him.  Tne 

thought  of  marrying  Ch I  mean  of  having  that 

silly,  school-girl  engagement  end  in  marriage,  was 
always  repugnant  to  me.  But  I  give  myself  to  Er 
nest  joyfully  and  with  all  my  heart. 

How  good  God  has  been  to  me!  I  do  hope  and 
pray  that  this  new,  this  absorbing  love,  has  not  de 
tached  my  soul  from  Him,  will  not  detach  it.  If  1 
knew  it  would,  could  I,  should  I  have  courage  to 
cut  it  off,  and  cast  it  from  me? 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  159 

JAN.  16,  1837. — Yesterday  was  ray  birth- 

day,  and  to-day  is  my  wedding-day.  We  meant  to 
celebrate  the  one  with  the  other,  but  Sunday  would 
come  thfs  year  on  the  fifteenth. 

I  am  dressed,  and  have  turned  everybody  out  of 
this  room,  where  I  have  suffered  so  much  mortifi 
cation,  and  experienced  so  much  joy,  that  before 
I  give  myself  to  Ernest,  and  before  I  leave  home 
forever,  I  may  once  more  give  myself  away  to  God. 
I  have  been  too  much  absorbed  in  my  earthly  love, 
and  am  shocked  to  find  how  it  fills  my  thoughts. 
But  I  ivill  belong  to  God.  I  iviU  begin  my  mar 
ried  life  in  His  fear,  depending  on  Him  to  make  me 
an  unselfish,  devoted  wife. 

JAN.  25. — We  had  a  delightful  trip  after  the 

wedding  was  over.  Ernest  proposed  to  take  me  to 
hip  own  home  that  I  might  see  his  mother  and  sis 
ter.  He  never  has  said  that  he  wanted  them  to 
see  me.  But  his  mother  is  not  well.  I  am  heartily 
glad  of  it.  I  mean  I  was  glad  to  escape  going 
there  to  be  examined  and  criticised.  Every  one  of 
them  would  pick  at  me,  I  am  sure,  and  I  don t  ike 
to  be  picked  at. 

We  have  a  home  of  our  own,  and  I  am  trying  to 
take  kindly  to  house-keeping.  Ernest  is  away  a 
great  deal  more  than  I  expected  he  would  be.  I 
am  fearfully  lonely.  Aunty  comes  to  see  me  as 


160  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

ofteu  as  she  can,  and  I  go  there  almost  every  clay, 
but  that  doesn't  amount  to  much.  As  soon  as  1 
can  venture  to  do  it,  I  shall  ask  Ernest  to  let  me 
invite  mother  to  come  and  live  with  us.  It  is  not 
right  for  her  to  be  left  all  alone  so.  1  hoped  he 
would  do  that  himself.  But  men  are  not  like  wo 
men.  We  think  of  everything. 

FEB.     16. — Our    honeymoon     ends    to-day. 

There  hasn't  been  quite  as  much  honey  in  it  as  I  ex 
pected.  I  supposed  that  Ernest  would  be  at  home 
every  evening,  at  least,  and  that  he  would  read 
aloud,  and  have  me  play  and  sing,  and  that  we 
should  have  delightful  times  together.  But  now 
he  has  got  me  Jie  seems  satisfied,  and  goes  about 
his  business  as  if  he  had  been  married  a  hundred 
years.  In  the  morning  he  goes  off  to  see  his  list  of 
patients;  he  is  going  in  and  out  all  day;  after  din 
ner  we  sit  down  to  have  a  nice  talk  together,  the 
door  bell  invariably  rings,  and  he  is  called  away. 
Then  in  the  evening  he  goes  and  sits  in  his  office 
and  studies;  I  don't  mean  every  minute,  but  he  cer 
tainly  spends  hours  there.  To-day  he  brought  me 
such  a  precious  letter  from  dear  mother !  I  could 
not  help  crying  when  I  read  it,  it  was  so  kind  arid 
so  loving.  Ernest  looked  amazed;  he  threw  down 
his  paper,  came  and  took  me  in  his  arms  and  asked, 
"What  is  the  matter,  darling?"  Then  it  all  came 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 


out.  I  said  1  was  lonely,  and  hadn't  been  used  to 
spending  my  evenings  all  by  myself. 

"  You  must  get  some  of  your  friends  to  come  and 
si  e  you,  poor  child,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  want  friends,"  I  sobbed  out  "  I  want 
you." 

"Yes,  darling;  why  didn't  you  tell  me  so  sooner? 
Of  course  I  will  stay  with  you  if  you  wish  it." 

"If  that  is  your  only  reason,  I  am  sure  I  don't 
want  you,"  I  pouted. 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"  I  really  don't  know  what  to  do,"  he  said,  with  a 
most  comical  look  of  perplexity.  But  he  went  to 
his  office,  and  brought  up  a  pile  of  fusty  old  books. 

"Now,  dear,"  he  said,  "we  understand  each 
other,  I  think.  I  can  read  here  just  as  well  as  down 
stairs.  Get  your  book  and  we  shall  be  as  cosy  as 
possible." 

My  heart  felt  sore  and  dissatisfied.  Am  I  un 
reasonable  and  childish?  What  is  married  life? 
An  occasional  meeting,  a  kiss  here  and  a  caress 
there?  or  is  it  the  sacred  union  of  the  twain  who 
walk  together  side  by  side,  knowing  each  other's 
joys  and  sorrows,  and  going  Heavenward  hand  in 
hand? 

-  FEB.  17  —  Mrs.  Embury  has  been  here  to 
day.  1  longed  ID  compare  notes  with  her,  and  find 


162  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

out  whether  it  really  is  my  fault  that  I  am  not  quite 
happy.  But  I  could  not  bear  to  open  my  heart  to 
her  on  so  sacred  a  subject.  We  had  some  general 
conversation,  however,  which  did  me  good  for  the 
time,  at  least. 

She  said  she  thought  one  of  the  first  lessons  a 
wife  should  learn  is  self-forgetfulness.  I  wondered 
if  she  had  seen  anything  in  me  to  call  forth  this  re 
mark.  We  meet  pretty  often;  partly  because  our 
husbands  are  such  good  friends,  partly  because  she 
is  as  fond  of  music  as  I  am,  and  we  like  to  sing  and 
play  together,  and  I  never  see  her  that  she  does  not 
do  or  say  something  elevating;  something  that 
strengthens  my  own  best  purposes  and  desires  But 
she  knows  nothing  of  my  conflict  and  dismay,  and 
never  will.  Her  gentle  nature  responds  at  once  to 
holy  influences.  I  feel  truly  grateful  to  her  for 
loving  me,  for  she  really  does  love  me,  and  yet  she 
must  see  my  faults. 

I  should  like  to  know  if  there  is  any  reason  on 
earth  why  a  woman  should  learn  self-forgetfulnesF 
that  does  not  apply  to  a  man? 

FEB.    18. — Uncle    says    he    has    no    doubt 

he  owes  his  life  to  Ernest,  who,  in  the  face  of 
opposition  to  other  physicians,  insisted  on  his 
giving  up  his  business  and  going  off  to  Europe 
at  just  the  right  moment.  For  his  partner  whose 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  163 

symptoms  were  very  like  his  own,  has  been  stricken 
down  with  paralysis,  and  will  not  recover. 

It  is  very  pleasant  to  hear  Ernest  praised,  and  it 
is  a  pleasure  I  have  very  often,  for  his  friends  come 
to  see  me,  and  speak  of  him  with  rapture.  A  lady 
told  me  that  through  the  long  illness  of  a  sweet 
young  daughter  of  hers,  he  prayed  with  her  every 
day,  ministering  so  skillfully  to  her  soul,  that  all 
fear  of  death  was  taken  away,  and  she  just  longed 
to  go,  and  did  go  at  last,  with  perfect  delight.  I 
think  he  spoke  of  her  to  me  once,  but  he  did  not 
tell  me  that  her  preparations  for  death  was  his 
work.  I  could  not  conceive  of  him  as  doing  that 

FEB.    24. — Ernest   has   been   gone  a  week. 

His  mother  is  worse  and  he  had  to  go.     I  wanted 
to  go  too  but  he  said  it  was  not  worth  while,  as  he 
should  have  to  return  directly.     Dr.   Embury  takes 
charge  of  his  patients  during  his  absence,  and  Mrs. 
E.  and  aunty  and  the  children  come  to  see  me  very 
often,     I  like  Mrs.  Embury  more  and  more.     She  is 
not  so  audacious  as  I  am,  but  I  believe  she  agrees 
with  me  more  than  she  will  own. 

FEB.  25. — Ernest  writes  that  his  mother  is 

dangerously  ill,  and  seems  in  great  distress.     I  am 
mean  enough  to  want  all  his  love  myself,  while  I 
should    hate   him  if  he   gave   none  to   her.     Poor 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

Ernest!     If  she  should  die  he  would  be  sadly  a£ 

dieted ! 
|j 

'•"' FEB.   27. — She  died  the  very  day  he  wrote. 

How  I  long  to  fly  to  him  and  to  comfort  him!  1 
can  think  of  nothing  else.  I  pray  day  and  night 
that  God  would  make  me  a  better  wife. 
*»JA  letter  came  from  mother  at  the  same  time  with 
Ernest's.  She  evidently  misses  me  more  than  she 
Will  own.  Just  as  soon  as  Ernest  returns  home  1 
will  ask  him  to  let  her  come  and  live  with  us.  I  am 
sure  he  will ;  he  loves  her  already,  and  now  that  his 
mother  has  gone  he  will  find  her  a  real  comfort.  I 
am  sure  she  will  only  make  our  home  the  happier. 
.A 

FEB.  28. — Such  a  dreadful  thing  is  going  to 

Mppen !  I  have  cried  and  called  myself  names  by 
turns  all  day.  Ernest  writes  that  it  has  been  de 
cided  to  give  up  the  old  homestead,  and  scatter  the 
family  about  among  the  married  sons  and  daughters. 
Our  share  is  to  be  his  father  and  his  sister  Martha, 
and  he  desires  me  to  have  two  rooms  got  ready  for 
them  at  once. 

So  all  the  glory  and  the  beauty  is  snatched  out  :f 
my  married  life  at  one  swoop  !    And  it  is  done  by  the 
hand  1  love  best,  and  that  1  would  not  have  believed 
bould  be  so  unkind. 
""  I  am  rent  in  pieces  by  conflicting  emotions  and 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD,  166 

passions.  One  moment  I  am  all  tenderness  and 
sympathy  for  poor  Ernest,  and  ready  to  sacrifice 
everything  for  his  pleasure.  The  next  I  am  bitterly 
angry  with  him  for  disposing  of  all  my  happiness  in 
this  arbitrary  way.  If  he  had  let  me  make  com 
mon  cause  with  him  and  share  his  interests  with 
him,  I  know  I  am  not  so  abonlinably  selfish  as  to 
feel  as  I  do  now.  But  he  forces  two  perfect  stran 
gers  upon  me,  and  forever  shuts  our  doors  against 
my  darling  mother.  For  of  course  she  can  not  live 
with  us  if  they  do. 

And  who  knows  what  sort  of  people  they  are? 
It  is  not  everybody  I  can  get  along  with,  nor  is  it 
everybody  can  get  along  with  me.  Now  if  Helen 
were  coming  instead  of  Martha,  that  would  be  some 
relief.  I  could  love  her,  I  am  sure,  and  she  would 
put  up  with  my  ways.  But  your  Marthas  I  am 
afraid  of.  Oh,  dear,  dear,  what  a  nest  of  scor 
pions  this  affair  has  stirred  up  within  me!  Who 
would  believe  I  could  be  thinking  of  my  own 
misery  while  Ernest's  mother,  whom  he  loved  so 
dearly,  is  hardly  in  her  grave !  But  I  have  no 
heart,  I  am  stony  and  cold.  It  is  well  to  have  found 
out  just  what  I  am  ! 

Since  I  wrote  that  I  have  been  trying  to  tell  God 
all  about  it.  But  I  could  not  speak  for  crying. 
And  I  have  been  getting  the  rooms  ready.  How 
many  little  things  I  had  planned  to  put  in  the  best 


166  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

one,  which  I  intended  for  mother!  I  have  made 
myself  arrange  them  just  the  same  for  Ernest's 
father.  The  stuffed  chair  I  have  had  in  my  room, 
and  enjoyed  so  much,  has  been  rolled  in,  and  the 
Bible  with  large  print  placed  on  the  little  table  near 
which  I  had  pictured  mother  with  her  sweet,  pale 
face,  as  sitting  year  after  year.  The  only  thing  I 
have  taken  away  is  the  copy  of  father's  portrait. 
He  won't  want  that  / 

When  I  had  finished  this  business  I  went  and 
shook  my  fist  at  the  creature  I  saw  in  the  glass. 

"  You're  beaten ! "  I  cried.  "  You  didn't  want  to 
give  up  the  chair,  nor  your  writing  table,  nor  the 
Bible  in  which  you  expect  to  record  the  names  of 
your  ten  children !  But  you've  had  to  do  it,  so 
there!" 

MARCH  3. — They  all  got  here  at  7  o'clock 

last  night,  just  in  time  for  tea.  I  was  so  glad  to  get 
hold  of  Ernest  once  more  that  I  was  gracious  to 
my  guests  too.  The  very  first  thing,  however, 
Ernest  annoyed  me  by  calling  me  Katherine,  though 
he  knows  I  hate  that  name,  and  want  to  be  called 
Katy  as  if  I  were  a  lovable  person,  as  I  certainly 
am  (sometimes).  Of  course  his  father  and  his  Mar 
tha  called  me  Katherine  too. 

His  father  is  even  taller,  darker,  blacker  eyed, 
blacker -haired  than  he. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  167 

Martha  is  a  spinster 

I  had  got  up  a  nice  little  supper  for  them,  think 
ing  they  would  iieed  something  substantial  after 
their  journey.  And  perhaps  there  was  some  vanily 
in  the  display  of  dainties  that  needed  the  mortifica 
tion  I  felt  at  seeing  my  guests  both  push  away  their 
plates  in  apparent  disgust.  Ernest,  too,  looked  an 
noyed,  and  expressed  some  regret  that  they  could 
find  nothing  to  tempt  their  appetites. 

Martha  said  something  about  not  expecting  much 
from  young  housekeepers,  which  I  inwardly  re 
sented,  for  the  light,  delicious  bread  had  been  sent 
by  aunty,  together  with  other  luxuries  from  her 
own  table,  and  I  knew  they  were  not  the  handi 
work  of  a  young  housekeeper,  but  of  old  Chloe, 
who  had  lived  in  her  own  and  her  mother's  family, 
twenty  years. 

Ernest  went  out  as  soon  as  this  unlucky  repast 
was  over,  to  hear  Dr.  Embury's  report  of  his  pa 
tients,  and  we  passed  a  dreary  evening,  as  my 
mind  was  preoccupied  with  longing  for  his  return. 
The  more  I  tried  to  think  of  something  to  say,  the 
more  1  couldn't. 

At  last  Martha  asked  at  what  time  we  break 
fasted. 

"At  half-past  seven,  precisely,"  I  answered. 
"Ernest  is  very  punctual  about  breakfast.  The 
other  meals  are  more  irregular." 


168  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"That  is  very  late,"  she  returned.  "Father  rises 
early  and  needs  his  breakfast  at  once." 

I  said  I  would  see  that  he  had  it  as  early  as  he 
liked,  while  I  foresaw  that  this  would  cost  me  a 
battle  with  the  divinity  who  reigned  in  the  kitchen. 

"You  need  not  trouble  yourself.  I  will  speak  to 
my  brother  about  it,"  she  said. 

"Ernest  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  I  said 
quickly. 

She  looked  at  me  in  a  speechless  way,  and  then 
there  was  a  long  silence,  during  which  she  shook 
her  head  a  number  of  times.  At  last  she  inquired, 

"  Did  you  make  the  bread  we  had  on  the  table  to 
night  ?  " 

"No,  I  do  not  know  how  to  make  bread,"  I  said, 
smiling  at  her  look  of  horror. 

"  Not  know  how  to  make  bread ! "  she  cried. 

The  very  spirit  of  mischief  got  into  me,  and 
made  me  ask, 

"Why,  can  you?" 

Now  I  know  there  is  but  one  other  question  1 
could  Lave  asked  her,  less  insulting  than  this,  and 
that  is, 

"Do  you  know  the  ten  commandments?" 

A  spinster  fresh  from  a  farm  not  know  how  to 
make  bread,  to  be  sure! 

But  in  a  moment  I  was  ashamed  and  sorry  that 
I  had  yielded  to  myself  sor  far  as  to  forget  the 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  169 


courtesy  due  to  her  as  my  guest,  and  one  just  come 
from  a  scene  of  sorrow,  so  I  rushed  across  the  room, 
seized  her  hand,  and  said,  eagerly, 

"Do  forgive  me!  It  slipped  out  before  I 
thought ! " 

She  looked  at  me  in  blank  amazement,  uncon 
scious  that  there  was  anything  to  forgive. 

"  How  you  startled  me ! "  she  said.  "  I  thought 
you  had  suddenly  gone  crazy." 

I  went  back  to  my  seat  crest-fallen  enough.  All 
this  time  Ernest's  father  had  sat  grim  and  grave  in 
his  corner,  without  a  word.  But  now  he  spoke. 

"At  what  hour  does  my  son  have  family  wor 
ship?  I  should  like  to  retire.  I  feel  very  weary." 

Now  family  worship  at  night  consists  in  our 
kneeling  down  together  hand  in  hand,  the  last  thing 
bafore  going  to  bed,  and  in  our  own  room.  The 
awful  thought  of  changing  this  sweet,  informal 
habit  into  a  formal  one,  made  me  reply  quickly, 

"Oh,  Ernest  is  veiy  irregular  about  it.  He  ia 
often  out  in  the  evening,  and  sometimes  we  are  up 
quite  late.  I  hope  you  never  will  feel  obliged  to 
wait  for  him." 

"I  trust  I  shall  do  my  duty,  whatever  it  costs," 
was  the  answer. 

Oh,  how  I  wished  they  would  go  to  bed! 

It  was  now  ten  o'clock,  and  I  felt  tired  and  rest* 
loss.  When  Ernest  is  out  late  I  usually  lie  on  t1 


170  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

sofa  and  wait  for  him,  and  so  am  bright  and  fresli 
when  he  comes  in.  But  now  I  had  to  sit  up,  and 
there  was  no  knowing  for  how  long.  I  poked  at 
the  fire  and  knocked  down  the  shovel  and  tongs , 
now  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair,  and  now  I  leaned 
forward;  and  then  I  listened  for  his  step.  At  last 
he  came. 

"  What,  are  you  not  all  gone  to  bed  ?  "  he  asked. 
As  if  I  could  go  to  bed  when  I  had  scarcely  seen 
him  a  moment  since  his  return ! 

I  explained  why  we  waited,  and  then  we  had 
prayers  and  escorted  our  guests  to  their  rooms. 
When  we  got  back  to  the  parlor  I  was  thankful  tc 
rest  my  tired  soul  in  Ernest's  arms,  and  to  hear 
what  little  he  had  to  tell  about  his  mother's  last 
hours. 

"You  must  love  me  more  than  ever,  now,"  he 
said,  "for  I  have  lost  my  best  friend." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  will."  As  if  that  were  possi 
ble!  All  the  time  we  were  talking  I  heard  the 
greatest  racket  overhead,  but  he  did  not  seem  to 
notice  it  I  found,  this  morning,  that  Martha,  or 
her  father,  or  both  together,  had  changed  the  posi 
tions  of  every  article  of  furniture  in  the  room, 
making  it  look  like  a  fright 


XI. 


MABCH  10. 

HINGS  are  even  worse  than  I  expected. 
Ernest  evidently  looked  at  me  with  his  fa 
ther's  eyes,  (and  this  father  has  got  the  jaun 
dice,  or  something,)  and  certainly  is  cooler 
towards  me  than  he  was  before  he  went  home. 
Martha  still  declines  eating  more  than  enough  to 
keep  body  and  soul  together,  and  sits  at  the  table 
with  the  air  of  a  martyr.  Her  father  lives  on  crack 
ers  and  stewed  prunes,  and  when  he  has  eaten  them, 
fixes  his  melancholy  eyes  on  me,  watching  every 
mouthful  with  an  air  of  plaintive  regret  that  I  will 
consume  so  much  unwholesome  food. 

Then  Ernest  positively  spends  less  time  with  me 
than  ever,  and  sits  in  his  office  reading  and  writing 
nearly  every  evening. 

Yesterday  1  came  home  from  an  exhilarating 
walk,  and  a  charming  call  at  aunty's,  and  at  the 
dinner-table  gave  a  lively  account  of  some  of  the 
children's  exploits.  Nobody  laughed,  and  nobody 

(171) 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 


made  any  response,  and  after  dinner  Ernest  took  me 
aside,  and  said,  kindly  enough,  but  still  said  it, 

"  My  little  wife  must  be  careful  how  she  runs  on 
in  my  father's  presence.  He  has  great  dread  oi  ev 
erything  that  might  be  thought  levity." 

Then  all  the  vials  of  my  wrath  exploded  and 
went  off. 

"  Yes,  I  see  how  it  is,"  I  cried,  passionately.  "  You 
and  your  father  and  your  sister  have  got  a  box 
about  a  foot  square  that  you  want  to  squeeze  me 
into.  I  have  seen  it  ever  since  they  came.  And  I 
can  tell  you  it  will  take  more  than  three  of  you  to 
do  it.  There  was  no  harm  in  what  I  said  —  none, 
whatever.  If  you  only  married  me  for  the  sake  of 
screwing  me  down  and  freezing  me  up,  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  so  before  it  was  too  late  ?  " 

Ernest  stood  looking  at  me  like  one  staring  at  a 
problem  he  had  got  to  solve,  and  didn't  know  where 
to  begin. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  thought  you 
would  be  glad  to  have  me  give  you  this  little  hint 
Of  course  I  want  you  to  appear  your  very  best  be 
fore  my  father  and  sister." 

"  My  very  best  is  my  real  self,"  I  cried.  '  To 
talk  like  a  woman  of  forty  is  unnatural  to  a  girl  of 
my  age.  If  your  father  doesn't  like  me  I  wish  he 
would  go  away,  and  n^t  come  here  putting  notions 
into  your  head,  and  making  you  as  cold  and  hard 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  173 

as  a  stone.  Motlier  liked  to  have  me  'run  on/  as 
you  call  it,  and  I  wish  I  had  staid  with  her  all  my 
life. ' 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  asked,  very  gravely,  "that 
you  really  wish  that  ?  " 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  don't  mean  it,"  for  his  husky, 
troubled  voice  brought  me  to  my  senses.  "All  I 
mean  is,  that  I  love  you  so  dearly,  and  you  keep  my 
heart  feeling  so  hungry  and  restless;  and  then  you 
went  and  brought  your  father  and  sister  here  and 
never  asked  me  if  I  should  like  it;  and  you  crowd 
ed  mother  out,  and  she  lives  all  alone,  and  it  isn't 
right !  I  always  said  that  whoever  married  me  had 
got  to  marry  mother,  and  I  never  dreamed  that  you 
would  disappoint  me  so !  " 

"Will  you  stop  crying,  and  listen  to  me?"  he 
said. 

But  I  could  not  stop.  The  floods  of  the  great 
deep  were  broken  up  at  last,  and  I  had  to  cry.  If 
I  could  have  told  my  troubles  to  some  one  I  could 
thus  have  found  vent  for  them,  but  there  was  no 
one  to  whom  I  had  a  right  to  speak  of  my  hus 
band. 

Ernest  walked  up  and  down  in  silence.  Oh,  if  1 
could  have  cried  on  his  breast,  and  felt  that  he 
loved  and  pitied  me ! 

At  last,  as  I  grew  quieter,  he  came  and  sat  by  me. 

<4This  has  come  upon  me  like  a  thunderclap,"  he 


174  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

said.  "I  did  not  know  I  kept  your  heart  hungry 
I  did  not  know  you  wished  your  mother  to  live 
with  us.  And  I  took  it  for  granted  that  my  wifev 
with  her  high-toned,  heroic  character,  would  sus 
tain  me  in  every  duty,  and  welcome  my  father  and 
sister  to  our  home.  I  do  not  know  what  I  can  do 
now.  Shall  I  send  them  away?" 

"No,  no!"  I  cried.  "Only  be  good  to  me,  Er- 
nest,  only  love  me,  only  look  at  me  with  your  own 
eyes,  and  not  with  other  people's.  You  knew  I  had 
faults  when  you  married  me;  I  never  tried  to  con 
ceal  them." 

"And  did  you  fancy  I  had  none  myself?"  he 
asked. 

"N — o,"  I  replied.  "I  saw  no  faults  in  you. 
Everybody  said  you  were  such  a  noble,  good  man; 
and  you  spoke  so  beautifully  one  night  at  an  oven- 
ing  meeting ! " 

"  Speaking  beautifully  is  little  to  the  purpose  un 
less  one  lives  beautifully,"  he  said,  sadly.  "And 
now  is  it  possible  that  you  and  I,  a  Christian  man 
and  a  Christian  woman,  are  going  on  and  on  with 
such  scenes  as  this?  Are  you  to  wear  your  very 
life  out  because  I  have  not  your  frantic  way  of  lov 
ing,  and  am  I  to  be  made  weary  of  mine  because  I 
cannot  satisfy  yon  ?  " 

•'But,  Ernest,"  I  said,  "you  used  to  satisfy  mel 
Oil,  how  happy  1  was  in  those  first  days  when  we 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  175 

were  always  together,  and  you  seemed  so  fond  of 
me!"  I  was  down  on  the  floor  by  this  time,  and 
looking  up  into  his  pale,  anxious  face. 

"Dear  child,"  he  said,  "I  do  love  you,  and  that 
more  than  you  know.  But  you  would  not  have  me 
leave  my  work  and  spend  my  whole  time  telling 
you  so  ?  " 

"You  know  I  am  not  so  silly,"  I  cried.  "It  is 
not  fair,  it  is  not  right  to  talk  as  if  I  were.  I  ask 
for  nothing  unreasonable.  I  only  want  those  little 
daily  assurances  of  your  affection  which  I  should 
suppose  would  be  spontaneous  if  you  felt  at  all  to 
wards  me  as  I  do  to  you." 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  returned,  "  I  am  absorbed  in  my 
work.  It  brings  many  grave  cares  and  anxieties. 
I  spend  most  of  my  time  amid  scenes  of  suffering 
and  at  dying  beds.  This  makes  me  seem  abstract 
ed  and  cold,  but  it  does  not  make  you  less  dear. 
On  the  contrary,  the  sense  it  gives  me  of  the  brev 
ity  and  sorrowfulness  of  life  makes  you  doubly  pre 
cious,  since  it  constantly  reminds  me  that  sick  beds 
and  dying  beds  must  sooner  or  later  come  to  our 
home  as  to  those  of  others." 

I  clung  to  him  as  he  uttered  these  terrible  words 
in  an  agony  of  terror. 

"Oil,  Ernest,  promise  me,  promise  me  that  you 
will  not  die  first,"  I  pleaded. 

"  Foolish  little  thing ! "  he  said,  and  was  as  silly, 


176  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

for  a  while,  as  the  silliest  heart  could  ask.  Then  he 
became  serious  again. 

"  Katy,"  he  said,  "  if  you  can  once  make  up  your 
mind  to  the  fact  that  I  am  an  undemonstrative  man, 
not  all  fire  and  fury  and  ecstacy  as  you  are,  yet  lov 
ing  you  with  all  my  heart,  however  it  may  seem,  J 
think  you  will  spare  yourself  much  needless  pain  — 
and  spare  me,  also." 

"But  I  want  you  to  be  demonstrative,"  I  per 
sisted. 

"  Then  you  must  teach  me.  And  about  my  fath 
er  and  sister,  perhaps  we  may  find  some  way  of  re 
lieving  you  by  and  by.  Meanwhile,  try  to  bear 
with  the  trouble  they  make,  for  my  sake." 

"  But  I  don't  mind  the  trouble  !  Oh,  Ernest,  how 
you  do  misunderstand  me!  What  I  mind  is  their 
coming  between  you  and  me  and  making  you  love 
me  less." 

By  this  time  there  was  a  call  for  Ernest — it  is  a 
wonder  there  had  not  been  forty — and  he  went. 

I  feel  as  heart-sore  as  ever.  What  has  been 
gained  by  this  tempest?  Nothing  at  all!  Poor 
Ernest!  How  can  I  worry  him  so  when  he  is  al 
ready  full  of  care  ? 

MARCH  20. — I  have  had  such  a  truly  beau 
tiful  letter  to-day  from  dear  mother !  She  gives  up 
the  hope  of  coming  to  spend  her  last  years  with  UP 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  177 

with  a  sweet  patience  that  makes  me  cry  whenevei 
I  think  of  it.  What  is  the  secret  of  this  instant  and 
cheerful  consent  to  whatever  God  wills?  Oh,  that 
I  had  it,  too !  She  begs  me  to  be  considerate  and 
kind  to  Ernest's  father  and  sister,  and  constantly 
to  remind  myself  that  my  heavenly  Father  has  chosen 
to  give  me  this  care  and  trial  on  the  very  threshold 
of  my  married  life.  I  am  afraid  I  have  quite  lost 
sight  of  that  in  my  indignation  with  Ernest  for 
bringing  them  here. 

APRIL   3. — Martha  is   closeted   with    Ernest 

in  his  office  day  and  night.  They  never  give  me 
the  least  hint  of  what  is  going  on  in  these  secret 
meetings.  Then  this  morning,  Sarah,  my  good, 
faithful  cook,  bounced  into  my  room  to  give  warn 
ing.  She  said  she  could  not  live  where  there  were 
two  mistresses  giving  contrary  directions. 

"But,  really,  there  is  but  one  mistress,"  I  urged. 
Then  it  came  out  that  Martha  went  down  every 
morning  to  look  after  the  soap-fat,  and  to  scrimp  in 
the  house-keeping,  and  see  that  there  was  no  food 
wasted.  I  remembered  then  that  she  had  inquired 
whether  I  attended  to  these  details,  evidently  rank 
ing  such  duties  with  saying  one's  prayers  and  read 
ing  one's  Bible. 

3  flew  to  Ernest  the  moment  he  was  at  leisure 
and  poured  my  grievances  into  his  ear. 
8* 


178  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"Well,  dear/'  lie  said,  "suppose  you  give  up  the 
house-keeping  to  Martha!  She  will  be  far  happier 
and  you  will  be  freed  from  much  annoying,  petty 
care." 

I  bit  my  tongue  lest  it  should  say  something,  and 
went  back  to  Sarah. 

"  Suppose  Miss  Elliott  takes  charge  of  the  house 
keeping,  and  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  will  you 
stay?" 

"  Indeed,  and  I  won't  then.  I  can't  bear  her,  and 
I  won't  put  up  with  her  nasty,  scrimping,  pinching 


"Very  well.  Then  you  will  have  to  go,"  I  said, 
with  great  dignity,  though  just  ready  to  cry.  Er 
nest  on  being  applied  to  for  wages,  undertook  to 
argue  the  question  himself. 

"  My  sister  will  take  the  whole  charge,"  he  began. 

"And  may  and  welcome  for  all  me!"  quoth  Sa 
rah.  "I  don't  like  her  and  never  shall." 

"  Your  liking  or  disliking  her  is  of  no  consequence 
whatever,"  said  Ernest.  "You  may  dislike  her  as 
much  as  you  please.  But  you  must  not  leave  us.'* 

"Indeed,  and  I'm  not  going  to  stay  and  be  put 
upon  by  her,"  persisted  Sarah.  So  she  has  gone. 
We  had  to  get  dinner  ourselves;  that  is  to  say, 
Martha  did,  for  she  said  I  got  in  her  way,  and  put 
her  out  with  my  awkwardness.  I  have  been  run 
ning  hither  and  thither  to  find  some  angel  who  will 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  179 

consent  to  live  in  this  ill  assorted  household.  Oh. 
how  different  every  thing  is  from  what  I  had  plan 
ned  !  I  wanted  a  cheerful  home,  where  I  should 
be  the  centre  of  every  joy;  a  home  like  aunty's, 
without  a  cloud.  But  Ernest's  father  sits,  the  per 
sonification  of  silent  gloom,  like  a  nightmare  on  my 
spirits;  Martha  holds  me  in  disfavor  and  contempt ; 
Ernest  is  absorbed  in  his  profession,  and  I  hardly 
see  him.  If  he  wants  advice  he  asks  it  of  Martha, 
while  I  sit  humbled,  degraded  and  ashamed,  won 
dering  why  he  ever  married  me  at  all.  And  then 
come  interludes  of  wild  joy  when  he  appears  just 
as  he  did  in  the  happy  days  of  our  bridal  trip,  and 
I  forget  every  grievance  and  hang  on  his  words 
and  looks  like  Dne  intoxicated  with  bliss. 


p.  2. — There  has  been  another  explosion. 
I  held  in  as  long  as  I  could,  and  then  flew  into  ten 
thousand  pieces.  Ernest  had  got  into  the  habit  of 
helping  his  father  and  sister  at  the  table,  and  ap 
parently  forgetting  me.  It  seems  a  little  thing,  but 
it  chafed  and  fretted  my  already  irritated  soul  till 
at  last  1  was  almost  beside  myself. 

Yesterday  they  all  three  sat  eating  their  break 
fast  and  I,  with  empty  plate,  sat  boiling  over  and 
looking  on,  when  Ernest  brought  things  to  a  crisis 
by  saying  to  Martha, 

"  If  you  can  find  time  to-day  I  wish  you  would 


180  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

go  out  with  me  for  half  an  hour  or  so.  I  want  to 
consult  you  about — " 

"  Oh ! "  I  said,  rising,  with  my  face  all  in  a  flamo, 
"  do  not  trouble  yourself  to  go  out  in  order  to  es- 
cnpe  me.  I  can  leave  the  room  and  you  can  have 
your  secrets  to  yourselves  as  you  do  your  break 
fast  ! " 

I  don't  know  which  struck  me  most  Ernest's  ap 
palled,  grieved  look,  or  the  glance  exchanged  be 
tween  Martha  and  her  father. 

He  did  not  hinder  my  leaving  the  room,  and  I 
went  up-stairs,  as  pitiable  an  object  as  could  be 
seen.  I  heard  him  go  to  his  office,  then  take  his 
hat  and  set  forth  on  his  rounds.  What  wretched 
hours  I  passed,  thus  left  alone!  One  moment  I 
reproached  myself,  the  next  I  was  indignant  at  the 
long  series  of  offences  that  had  led  to  this  disgrace 
ful  scene. 

At  last  Ernest  came. 

He  looked  concerned,  and  a  little  pale. 

"  Oh,  Ernest ! "  I  cried,  running  to  him,  "  I  am  so 
>oiry  I  spoke  to  you  as  I  did!  But,  indeed,  I  can 
not  stand  the  way  things  are  going  on ;  I  am  wear 
iog  all  out.  Everybody  speaks  of  my  growing  thin. 
Feel  of  my  hands.  They  burn  like  fire." 

"I  knew  you  would  be  sorry,  dear,"  ho  said. 
u  Yes,  your  hands  are  hot,  poor  child." 

There  was  a  long,  dreadful  silence.     And  yet  I 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  181 

was  speaking,  and  perhaps  he  was.  I  was  begging 
and  beseeching  God  not  to  let  us  drift  apart,  not  to 
let  us  lose  one  jot  or  tittle  of  our  love  to  each  other, 
to  enable  me  to  understand  my  dear,  dear  husband 
and  make  him  understand  me. 

Then  Ernest  began. 

"What  was  it  vexed  you,  dear?  What  is  it  you 
can't  stand?  Tell  me.  I  am  your  husband,  I  love 
you,  I  want  to  make  you  happy.'* 

"Why,  you  are  having  so  many  secrets  that  you 
keep  from  me;  and  you  treat  me  as  if  I  were  only 
a  child,  consulting  Martha  about  everything.  And 
of  late  you  seem  to  have  forgotten  that  I  am  at  the 
table  and  never  help  me  to  anything ! " 

"  Secrets !  "  he  re-echoed.  "  What  possible  se 
crets  can  I  have?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said,  sinking  wearily  back  on 
the  sofa.  "Indeed,  Ernest,  I  don't  want  to  be  sel 
fish  or  exacting,  but  I  am  very  unhappy." 

"Yes,  I  see  it,  poor  child.  And  if  I  have  ne 
glected  you  at  the  table  I  do  not  wonder  you  are 
out  of  patience.  I  know  how  it  has  happened. 
While  you  were  pouring  out  the  coffee,  I  busied  rny  • 
silf  in  caring  for  my  father  and  Martha,  and  so  foi- 
gDt  you  I  do  not  give  this  as  an  excuse,  but  as  it 
isason.  I  have  really  no  excuse,  and  am  ashaniwd 
of  myself." 

4 Don't  say  that,  darling,"  I  cried,  "it  is   [   who 


182  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

ought  to  be  ashamed  for  making  such  an  ado  ahont 
a  trifle." 

"It  is  not  a  triflo,"  he  said;  "and  now  to  the 
other  points.  I  dare  Bay  I  have  been  careless  about 
consulting  Martha.  But  she  has  always  been  a 
sort  of  oracle  in  our  family,  and  we  all  look  up  to 
her,  and  she  is  so  much  older  than  you.  Then  as 
to  the  secrets.  Martha  comes  to  my  office  to  help 
me  look  over  my  books.  I  have  been  careless  about 
my  accounts,  and  she  has  kindly  undertaken  to  at 
tend  to  them  for  me." 

"Could  not  I  have  done  that?" 

"No;  why  Rhould  your  little  head  be  troubled 
about  money-matters?  But  to  go  on.  I  see  that  it 
was  thoughtless  in  me  not  to  tell  you  what  we  were 
about  But  I  am  greatly  perplexed  and  harassed 
in  many  ways.  Perhaps  you  would  feel  better  to 
know  all  about  it.  I  have  only  kept  it  from  you  to 
spare  you  all  the  anxiety  I  could." 

"  Oh,  Ernest,"  I  said,  "  ought  not  a  wife  to  share 
in  all  her  husband's  cares?" 

'•No,"  he  returned;  "but  I  will  tell  you  all  thai  is 
annoying  me  now.  My  father  was  in  business  in 
our  native  town,  and  went  on  prosperously  for 
many  years.  Then  the  tide  turned — he  met  with 
loss  after  loss,  till  nothing  remaii.ed  but  the  old 
homestead,  and  on  that  there  was  a  mortgage.  We 
concealed  the  state  of  things  from  my  mother;  her 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  183 

health  was  delicate,  and  we  never  let  her  know  a 
trouble  we  could  spare  her.  Now  she  has  gone, 
and  we  have  found  it  necessary  to  sell  our  old  home, 
and  to  divide  and  scatter  the  family.  My  father's 
oiental  distress  when  he  found  others  suffering 
from  his  own  losses,  threw  him  into  the  state  in 
which  you  see  him  now.  I  have  therefore  assumed 
his  debts,  and  with  God's  help,  hope  in  time  to  pay 
them  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  It  will  be  neces 
sary  for  us  to  live  economically  until  this  is  done. 
There  are  two  pressing  cases  that  I  am  trying  to 
meet  at  once.  This  has  given  me  a  pre-occupied 
air,  I  have  no  doubt,  and  made  you  suspect  and  mis 
understand  me.  But  now  you  know  the  whole, 
my  darling." 

I  felt  my  injustice  and  childish  folly  very  keenly, 
and  told  him  so. 

"  But  I  think,  dear  Ernest,"  I  added,  "  if  you  will 
not  be  hurt  at  my  saying  so,  that  you  have  led  me 
to  it  by  not  letting  me  share  at  once  in  your  cares. 
If  you  had,  at  the  outset,  just  told  me  the  whole 
story,  you  would  have  enlisted  my  sympathies  in 
your  father's  behalf,  and  in  your  own.  I  should 
have  seen  the  reasonableness  of  your  breaking  up 
the  old  home  and  bringing  him  here,  and  it  would 
have  taken  off  the  edge  of  my  bitter,  bitter  disap 
pointinent  about  my  mother." 

"  T   feel    very   sorry   about    that,"   he   said.     "  It 


184  STEPPING   HEAVENWARD. 

would  be  a  real  pleasure  to  have  her  here.  But  as 
things  are  now,  she  could  not  be  happy  with  us." 

"There  is  no  room,"  I  put  in. 

"No,  I  am  truly  sorry.  And  now,  my  deai 
little  wife  must  have  patience  with  her  stupid, 
blundering  old  husband,  and  we'll  start  together 
once  more,  fair  and  square.  Don't  wait,  next  time, 
till  you  are  so  full  that  you  boil  over;  the  moment 
I  annoy  you  by  my  inconsiderate  ways,  come  right 
and  tell  me." 

So  then  I  called  myself  all  the  horrid  names  I 
could  think  of. 

"  May  I  ask  one  thing  more,  now  we  are  upon  the 
subject  ?  "  I  said,  at  last.  "  Why  couldn't  your  sister 
Helen  have  come  here  instead  of  Martha  ?  " 

He  smiled  a  little. 

"In  the  first  place  Helen  would  be  perfectly 
crushed  if  she  had  the  care  of  father  in  his  present 
state.  She  is  too  young  to  have  such  responsibility. 
In  the  second  place,  my  brother  John,  with  whom 
she  has  gone  to  live,  has  a  wife  who  would  be 
quite  overwhelmed  by  my  father  and  Martha.  She 
is  one  of  those  little  tender,  soft  souls,  one  could 
crush  with  one's  fingers.  Now  you  are  not  of  that 
eort;  you  have  force  }f  character  enough  to  enable 
you  to  live  with  them,  while  maintaining  your  own 
dignity  and  remaining  yourself  in  spite  of  circum« 
stances." 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  185 

"  I  thought  you  admired  Martha  above  all  things, 
and  wanted  me  to  be  exactly  like  her." 

"I  do  admire  her,  but  I  do  not  want  you  to  be 
like  anybody  but  yourself." 

"  But  you  nearly  killed  me  by  suggesting,  that  I 
should  take  heed  how  I  talked  in  your  father's  pre 
sence." 

"Yes,  dear;  it  was  very  stupid  of  me,  but  my  fa 
ther  has  a  standard  of  excellence  in  his  mind  by 
which  he  tests  every  woman;  this  standard  is  my 
mother.  She  had  none  of  your  life  and  fun  in  her, 
and  perhaps  would  not  have  appreciated  your  droll 
way  of  putting  things  any  better  than  he  and 
Martha  do." 

I  could  not  help  sighing  a  little  when  I  thought 
what  sort  of  people  were  watching  my  every 
word. 

"  There  is  nothing  amiss  to  my  mind,"  Ernest  con 
tinued,  "in  your  gay  talk;  but  my  father  has  his 
own  views  as  to  what  constitutes  a  religious  char 
acter,  and  cannot  understand  that  real  earnestness 
and  real,  genuine  mirthfulness  are  consistent  with 
each  other. 

Ho  had  to  go  now,  and  we  parted  as  if  foi  a 
week's  separation,  this  one  talk  had  brought  us  so 
near  to  each  other.  I  understand  him  now  as  I  never 
have  done,  and  feel  that  he  has  given  me  as  real  a 
proof  of  his  affection  by  unlocking  t£e  door  of  his 


186  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

heart  and  letting  me  see  its  cares,  as  I  give  him  in 
my  wild  pranks  and  caresses  and  foolish  speeches. 
I  low  truly  noble  it  is  in  him  to  take  up  his  father's 
burden  ir.  this  way!  I  must  contrive  to  help  tc 
lighten  it 


XII. 


NOVEMBER  6. 

UNTY  has  put  me  in  the  way  of  doing 
that.  I  could  not  tell  her  the  whole  story, 
of  course,  but  I  made  her  understand  that 
Ernest  needed  money  for  a  generous  pur 
pose,  and  that  I  wanted  to  help  him  in  it.  She 
said  the  children  needed  both  music  and  drawing 
lessons,  and  that  she  should  be  delighted  if  I  would 
take  them  in  hand.  Aunty  does  not  care  a  fig  for 
accomplishments,  but  I  think  I  am  right  in  accept 
ing  her  offer,  as  the  children  ought  to  learn  to  sing 
and  to  play  and  to  draw.  Of  course  I  cannot  have 
them  come  here,  as  Ernest's  father  could  not  bear 
the  noise  they  would  make;  besides,  I  want  to  take 
him  by  surprise,  and  keep  the  whole  thing  a  secret 

Nov.   14. — I  have  seen  by  the  way  Mart  ha 

draws  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth  of  late,  that 
I  am  unusually  out  of  favor  with  her.  This  even 
ing,  Ernest,  coming  home  quite  late,  found  me  loll 
ing  back  in  my  chair,  idling,  after  a  hard  day's 

187) 


188  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

work  with  my  little  cousins,  and  Martha  sewing 
nervously  away  at  the  rate  of  ten  knots  an  hour, 
which  is  the  first  pun  I  ever  made. 

"Why  will  you  sit  up  and  sew  at  such  a  rate, 
Martha?"  he  asked. 

She  twitched  at  her  thread,  broke  it,  and  began 
with  a  new  one  before  she  replied. 

"  I  suppose  you  find  it  convenient  to  have  a 
whole  shirt  to  your  back." 

I  saw  then  that  she  was  making  his  shirts!  It 
made  me  both  hot  and  cold  at  once.  What  must 
Ernest  think  of  me? 

It  is  plain  enough  what  he  thinks  of  her,  for  he 
said,  quite  warmly,  for  him — 

"This  is  really  too  kind." 

What  right  has  she  to  prowl  round  among  Er 
nest's  things  and  pry  into  the  state  of  his  ward 
robe?  If  I  had  not  had  my  time  so  broken  up 
with  giving  lessons,  I  should  have  found  out  that 
he  needed  new  shirts  and  set  to  work  on  them. 
Though  I  must  own  I  hate  shirt-making.  I  could 
not  help  showing  that  I  felt  aggrieved.  Martha 
defended  herself  by  saying  that  she  knew  young 
people  would  be  young  people,  and  would  gad 
about,  shirts  or  no  shirts.  Now  it  is  not  her  fault 
that  she  thinks  I  waste  my  time  gadding  about,  but 
I  am  just  as  angry  with  her  as  if  she  did.  Oh,  why 
couldn't  I  have  had  Helen,  to  be  a  pleasant  com- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  189 

panion  and  friend  to  me,  instead  of  this  old—  well, 
I  won't  say  what. 

And  really,   with  so  much  to   make   me  happy 
what  would  become  of  me  if  I  had  no  trials? 

Nov.  15. —  To-day  Martha  has  a  house- 
cleaning  mania,  and  has  dragged  me  into  it  by  re 
presenting  the  sin  and  misery  of  those  deluded 
mortals  who  think  servants  know  how  to  sweep 
and  to  scrub.  In  spite  of  my  resolution  not  to  get 
under  her  thumb,  I  have  somehow  let  her  rule  and 
reign  over  me  to  such  an  extent  that  I  can  hardly 
sit  up  long  enough  to  write  this.  Does  the  whole 
duty  of  woman  consist  in  keeping  her  house  dis 
tressingly  clean  and  prim;  in  making  and  baking 
and  preserving  and  pickling;  in  climbing  to  the  top 
shelves  of  closets  lest  haply  a  little  dust  should 
lodge  there,  and  getting  down  on  her  hands  and 
knees  to  inspect  the  carpet?  The  truth  is  there  is 
not  one  point  of  sympathy  between  Martha  and 
myself,  not  one.  One  would  think  that  our  love  to 
Ernest  \\  ould  furnish  it.  But  her  love  aims  at  the 
abasen  it  of  his  character  and  mine  at  its  eleva 
tion,  te  thinks  I  should  bow  down  to  and  wor 
ship  h  i,  jump  up  and  offer  him  my  chair  when  he 
comes  i,  feed  him  with  every  unwholesome  dainty 
he  fan  es,  aad  feel  myself  honored  by  his  accept- 
ance  o  these  services.  1  think  it  is  for  him  to  rise 


190  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

and  offer  me  a  seat,  because  I  am  a  wornaii  and  his 
wife;  and  that  a  silly  subservience  on  my  part  is 
degrading  to  him  and  to  myself.  And  I  am  afraid 
I  make  known  these  sentiments  to  her  in  a  most 
unpalatable  way. 

Nov.  18. — Oh,  I  am  so  happy  that  I  sing  for 

joy!     Dear  Ernest  has  given  me  such  a  delightful 
surprise !     He  says  he  has  persuaded  James  to  come 
and  spend  his  college  days  here,  and  finally  study 
medicine  with  him.     Dear,  darling  old  James!     He 
is  to  be  here  to-morrow.     He  is  to  have  the  little 
hall  bed-room  fitted  up  for  him,  and  he  will  be  here 
several  years.     Next  to  having  mother,  this  is  the 
nicest    thing    that    could    happen.     We    love    each 
other  so   dearly,  and  get  along   so  beautifully  to 
gether.     I  wonder  how  he'll  like  Martha  with  her 
grim  ways,  and  Ernest's  father  with  his  melancholy 
ones. 

Nov.  30. — James  has  come,   and  the  house 

already  seems  lighter  and  cheerier.     He  is  not  in 
the   least   annoyed  by  Martha   or  her  father,   and 
though  he  is  as  jovial  as  the  day  is  long,  they  ac 
tually  seem  to  like  him.     True  to  her  theory  on  the 
subject,  Martha  invariably  rises  at  his  entrance,  and 
offers  him  her  seat !     He  pretends  not  to  see  it,  and 
runs  to  get  one  for  her!     Then  she  takes  comfort 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  i91 

In  seeing  him  consume  her  good  things,  since  his 
gobbling  them  down  is  a  sort  of  tacit  tribute  to 
their  merits. 

Mrs.  Embury  was  here  to-day.  She  says  there 
is  not  much  the  matter  with  Ernest's  father,  that 
he  has  only  got  the  hypo.  I  don't  know  exactly 
what  this  is,  but  I  believe  it  is  thinking  something 
is  the  matter  with  you,  when  there  isn't.  At  any- 
rate  I  put  it  to  you,  my  dear  old  journal,  whether 
it  is  pleasant  to  live  with  people  who  behave  in  this 
way? 

In  the  first  place  all  he  talks  about  is  his  fancied 
disease.  He  gets  book  after  book  from  the  office 
and  studies  and  ponders  his  case  till  he  grows  quite 
yellow.  One  day  he  says  he  has  found  out  the 
seat  of  his  disease  to  be  the  liver,  and  changes  his 
diet  to  meet  that  view  of  the  case.  Martha  has  to 
do  him  up  in  mustard,  and  he  takes  kindly  to  blue 
pills.  In  a  day  or  two  he  finds  his  liver  is  all  right, 
but  that  his  brain  is  all  wrong.  The  mustard  goes 
now  to  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  he  takes  solemn 
leave  of  us  all,  with  the  assurance  that  his  last  hour 
has  come.  Finding  that  he  survives  the  night, 
aowever,  he  transfers  the  seat  of  his  disease  to  the 
heart,  spends  hours  in  counting  his  pulse,  refuses  to 
take  exercise  lest  he  should  bring  on  palpitation  a, 
and  warns  us  all  to  prepare  to  follow  him.  Every 
body  who  comes  in  has  to  hear  the  whole  story 


192  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

every  one  prescribes  something,  and  he  trie,s  eacL 
remedy  in  turn.  These  all  failing  to  reach  his  case, 
he  is  plunged  into  ten-fold  gloom.  He  complains 
that  God  has  cast  him  off  forever,  and  that  his  sins 
are  like  the  sands  of  the  sea  for  number.  I  am 
such  a  goose  that  I  listen  to  all  these  varying 
moods  and  symptoms  with  the  solemn  conviction 
that  he  is  going  to  die  immediately;  I  bathe  his 
head,  and  count  his  pulse,  and  fan  him,  and  take 
down  his  dying  depositions  for  Ernest's  solace  after 
he  has  gone.  And  I  talk  theology  to  him  by  the 
hour,  while  Martha  bakes  and  brews  in  the  kitchen, 
or  makes  mince  pies,  after  eating  which  one  might 
give  him  the  whole  Bible  at  one  dose,  without  the 
smallest  effect. 

To-day  I  stood  by  his  chair,  holding  his  head  and 
whispering  such  consoling  passages  as  I  thought 
might  comfort  him,  when  James  burst  in,  singing 
and  tossing  his  cap  in  the  air. 

"Come  here,  young  man,  and  hear  my  last  testi 
mony.  I  am  about  to  die.  The  end  draws  near,* 
were  the  sepulchral  words  that  made  him  bring  his 
aong  to  an  abrupt  close. 

"  I  shall  take  it  very  ill  of  you,  sir,"  quoth  James, 
"  if  you  go  and  die  before  giving  me  that  cane  you 
promised  me." 

Who  could  die  decently  under  such  circumstan 
ces?  The  poor  old  man 'revived  immediately,  but 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  193 

looked  a  good  deal  injured  After  James  had  gone 
out,  he  said 

"  It  is  very  painful  to  one  who  stands  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  eternal  world,  to  see  the  young  so 
thoughtless." 

"But  James  is  not  thoughtless,"  I  said.  "It  is 
only  his  merry  way." 

"Daughter  Katherine,"  he  went  on,  "you  are 
very  kind  to  the  old  man,  and  you  will  have  your 
reward.  But  I  wish  I  could  feel  sure  of  your  state 
before  God.  I  greatly  fear  you  deceive  yourself 
and  that  the  ground  of  your  hope  is  delusive." 

I  felt  the  blood  rush  to  my  face.  At  first  I  was 
staggered  a  good  deal.  But  is  a  mortal  man  who 
cannot  judge  of  his  own  state  to  decide  mine  ?  It 
is  true  he  sees  my  faults;  anybody  can,  who  looks. 
But  he  does  not  see  my  prayers,  or  my  tears  of 
shame  and  sorrow;  he  does  not  know  how  many 
hasty  words  I  repress;  how  earnestly  I  am  aiming, 
all  the  day  long,  to  do  right  in  all  the  little  details 
of  life.  He  does  not  know  that  it  costs  my  fasti 
dious  nature  an  appeal  to  God  every  time  I  kiss  his 
poor  old  face,  and  that  what  would  be  an  act  of 
worship  in  him,  is  an  act  of  self-denial  in  me.  How 
should  he?  The  Christian  life  is  a  hidden  life, 
known  only  by  the  eye  that  seeth  in  secret.  And  I 
do  believe  this  life  is  mine. 

Up  to  this  time  I  have  contrived  to  get  along 
9 


194  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD 

without   calling    Ernest's   father   by   any   name.     J 

mean  now  to  make  myself  turn  over  a  new  leaf. 

• 

DECEMBER    7. — James    is    my   perpetual   joy 

and  pride.     We  read  and  sing  together,  just  as  we 
used  to  do  in  our  old  school-days.     Martha  sits  by, 
with  her  work,  grimly  approving;  for  is  he  not  a 
man?    And,  as  if  my  cup  of  felicity  were  not  full 
enough,  I  am  to  have  my  dear  old  pastor  come  here 
to  settle   over  this   church,  and  I  shall  once  more 
hear  his  beloved  voice  in   the  pulpit     Ernest  has 
managed   the  whole  thing.     He   says  the   state  of 
Dr.   C.'s  health  makes  the  change  quite  necessary, 
and  that  he  can  avail  himself  of  the  best  surgical 
advice  this  city  affords,  in  case  his  old  difficulties 
recur.     I  rejoice  for  myself  and  for  this  church,  but 
mother  will  miss  him  sadly. 

I  am  leading  a  very  busy,  happy  life,  only  I  am, 
perhaps,  working  a  little  too  hard.  What  with  my 
Bcholars,  the  extra  amount  of  housework  Martha 
contrives  to  get  out  of  me,  the  practicing  I  must 
keep  up  if  I  am  to  teach,  and  the  many  steps  I  have 
to  take,  I  have  not  only  no  idle  moments,  but  none 
too  many  for  recreation.  Ernest  is  so  busy  himself 
that  he  fortunately  does  not  see  what  a  race  I  am 
running. 

JANT4RY    16,    1838. — The    first    anniversary 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  195 

of  our  wedding-day,  and  like  all  days,  has  had  its 
lights  and  its  shades.  I  thought  I  would  celebrate 
it  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  pleasure  to  everybody, 
and  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in  getting  up  a  little 
gift  for  each,  from  Ernest  and  myself.  And  I  took 
special  pains  to  have  a  good  dinner,  particularly  for 
father.  Yes,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  call  him 
by  that  sacred  name  for  the  first  time  to-day,  cost 
what  it  may.  But  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  room 
directly  after  breakfast,  and  when  dinner  was  ready 
refused  to  come  down.  This  cast  a  gloom  over  us 
all.  Then  Martha  was  nearly  distracted  because  a 
valuable  dish  had  been  broken  in  the  kitchen,  and 
could  not  recover  her  equanimity  at  all.  Worst  of 
all,  Ernest,  who  is  not  in  the  least  sentimental,  nev 
er  said  a  word  about  our  wedding-day,  and  didn't 
give  me  a  thing !  I  have  kept  hoping  all  day  that 
he  would  make  me  some  little  present,  no  matter 
how  small,  but  now  it  is  too  late;  he  has  gone  out 
to  be  gone  all  night,  probably,  and  thus  ends  the 
day,  an  utter  failure. 

I  feel  a  good  deal  disappointed.  Besides,  when 
I  look  back  over  this,  my  first  year  of  married  life, 
I  do  not  feel  satisfied  with  myself  at  all.  I  can't 
help  feeling  that  I  have  been  selfish  and  unreason 
able  towards  Ernest  in  a  great  many  ways,  and  aa 
contrary  towards  Martha  as  if  I  enjoyed  a  state  of 
warfare  between  us.  And  I  have  felt  a  good  deal 


196  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

of  secret  contempt  for  her  father,  with  his  moodt 
and  tenses,  his  pill-boxes  and  his  plasters,  his  feast- 
ings  and  his  fastings.  I  do  not  understand  how  a 
Christian  can  make  such  slow  progress  as  I  do,  and 
how  old  faults  can  hang  on  so. 

If  I  had  made  any  real  progress,  should  I  not  be 
sensible  of  it? 

I  have  been  reading  over  the  early  part  of  this 
journal,  and  when  I  came  to  the  conversation  I  had 
with  Mrs.  Cabot,  in  which  I  made  a  list  of  my  wants, 
I  was  astonished  that  I  could  ever  have  had  such 
contemptible  ones.  Let  me  think  what  I  really  and 
truly  most  want  now. 

First  of  all,  then,  if  God  should  speak  to  me  at 
this  moment  and  offer  to  give  just  one  thing,  and 
that  alone,  I  should  say  without  hesitation, 

Love  to  Thee,  0  my  Master! 

Next  to  that,  if  I  could  have  one  thing  more,  I 
would  choose  to  be  a  thoroughly  unselfish,  devoted 
wife.  Down  in  my  secret  heart  I  know  there  lurks 
another  wish,  which  I  am  ashamed  of.  It  is  that  in 
some  way  or  other,  some  right  way,  I  could  be  de 
livered  from  Martha  and  her  father.  I  shall  nevei 
be  any  better  while  they  are  here  to  tempt  me ! 

•"  FEBRUARY  1. — Ernest  spoke  to-day  of  one 
of  his  patients,  a  Mrs.  Campbell,  who  is  a  great  suf 
ferer,  but  whom  he  describes  as  the  happiest,  most 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  197 

cheerful  person  he  ever  met.  He  rarely  speaks  of 
his  patients.  Indeed,  he  rarely  speaks  of  anything. 
I  felt  strangely  attracted  by  what  he  said  of  her, 
and  asked  so  many  questions  that  at  last  he  pro 
posed  to  take  me  to  see  her.  I  caught  at  the  idea 
very  eagerly,  and  have  just  come  home  from  the 
visit  greatly  moved  and  touched.  She  is  confined 
to  her  bed,  and  is  quite  helpless,  and  at  times  hei 
sufferings  are  terrible.  She  received  me  with  a 
sweet  smile,  however,  and  led  me  on  to  talk  more 
of  myself  than  I  ought  to  have  done.  I  wish  Er 
nest  had  not  left  me  alone  with  her,  so  that  I  should 
have  had  the  restraint  of  his  presence. 

FEB.  14. —  I  am  so  fascinated  with  Mrs 

Campbell  that  I  cannot  help  going  to  see  her  again 
and  again.  She  seems  to  me  like  one  whose  con 
flict  and  dismay  are  all  over,  and  who  looks  on 
other  human  beings  with  an  almost  divine  love  and 
pity.  To  look  at  life  as  she  does,  to  feel  as  she  does, 
to  have  such  a  personal  love  to  Christ  as  she  has,  I 
would  willingly  go  through  every  trial  and  sorrow. 
When  I  told  her  so,  she  smiled,  a  little  sadly. 

"Much  as  you  envy  me,"  she  said,  "my  faith  is 
not  yet  so  strong  that  I  do  not  shudder  at  the  thought 
of  a  yrung  enthusiastic  girl  like  you,  going  through 
all  I  have  done  in  order  to  learn  a  few  simple  les 
sons  which  God  was  willing  to  teach  me  sooner 


198  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

and  without  the  use  of  a  rod,  if  I  had  been  ready 
for  them." 

"  But  you  are  so  happy  now,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  1  am  happy,"  she  replied,  "and  such  hap 
piness  is  worth  all  it  costs.  If  my  flesh  shudders  at 
the  remembrance  of  what  I  have  endured,  my  faith 
sustains  God  through  the  whole.  But  tell  me  a 
(ihtle  more  about  yourself,  my  dear.  I  should  so 
love  to  give  you  a  helping  hand,  if  I  might." 

"  You  know,"  I  began,  "  dear  Mrs.  Campbell,  that 
there  are  some  trials  that  cannot  do  us  any  good. 
They  only  call  out  all  there  is  in  us  that  is  unlovely 
and  severe." 

"  I  don't  know  of  any  such  trials,"  she  replied. 

"Suppose  you  had  to  live  with  people  who  were 
perfectly  uncongenial;  who  misunderstood  you, 
and  who  were  always  getting  into  your  way  as 
stumbling  blocks?" 

"  If  I  were  living  with  them  and  they  made  me 
unhappy,  I  would  ask  God  to  relieve  me  of  this 
trial  if  He  thought  it  best  If  He  did  not  think  it 
best,  I  would  then  try  to  find  out  the  reason,  lie 
might  have  two  reasons.  One  would  be  the  good 
they  might  do  me.  The  other  the  good  I  might  do 
them." 

"But  in  the  case  I  was  supposing,  neither  party 
can  be  of  the  least  use  to  the  other." 

"You  forget  perhaps  the  indirect  good  one  may 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  199 

• 

gain  by  living  with  uncongenial,  tempting  persons. 
First  such  people  do  good  by  the  very  self-denial 
and  self-control  their  mere  presence  demands.  Then, 
their  making  one's  home  less  home-like  and  perfect 
than  it  would  be  in  their  absence,  may  help  to  ren 
der  our  real  home  in  heaven  more  attractive." 

But    suppose    on^j    cannot   exercise    self-control, 
and  is  always  flying  out  and  flaring  up  ?  "  I  objected. 

"I  should  say  that  a  Christian  who  was  always 
doing  that,"  she  replied,  gravely,  "was  in  pressing 
need  of  just  the  trial  God  sent  when  he  shut  him 
up  to  such  a  life  of  hourly  temptation.  We  only 
know  ourselves  and  what  we  really  are,  when  the 
force  of  circumstances  brings  us  out" 

"It  is  very  mortifying  and  painful  to  find  how 
weak  one  is." 

"That  is  true.  But  our  mortifications  are  some 
of  God's  best  physicians,  and  do  much  toward  heal 
ing  our  pride  and  self-conceit." 

"Do  you  really  think  then,  that  God  deliberately 
appoints  to  some  of  his  children  a  lot  where  their 
worst  passions  are  excited,  with  a  desire  to  bring 
good  out  of  this  seeming  evil  ?  Why  I  have  always 
supposed  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  me, 
for  instance,  would  be  to  have  a  home  exactly  to 
my  mind;  a  home  where  all  were  forbearing,  lov 
ing  and  good-tempered,  a  sort  of  little  heaven 
below." 


200  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"  If  you  have  not  such  a  home,  my  dear,  are  you 
sure  it  is  not  partly  your  own  fault  ?  " 

"Of  course  it  is  my  own  fault.  Because  I  am 
very  quick-tempered  I  want  to  live  with  good-tem 
pered  people." 

"  That  is  very  benevolent  in  you,"  she  said,  archly. 
[  colored,  but  went  on. 

"  Oh,  I  know  I  am  selfish.  And  therefore  I  want 
to  live  with  those  who  are  not  so.  I  want  to  live 
with  persons  to  whom  I  can  look  for  an  example, 
and  who  will  constantly  stimulate  me  to  something 
higher." 

"But  if  God  chooses  quite  another  lot  for  you, 
you  may  be  sure  that  He  sees  that  you  need  some 
thing  totally  different  from  what  you  want.  You 
said  just  now  that  you  would  gladly  go  through 
any  trial  in  order  to  attain  a  personal  love  to  Christ 
that  should  become  the  ruling  principle  of  your 
life.  Now  as  soon  as  God  sees  this  desire  in  you, 
is  He  not  kind,  is  He  not  wise,  in  appointing  such 
trials  as  He  knows  will  lead  to  this  end?" 

1  meditated  long  before  I  answered.  Was  God 
really  asking  me  not  merely  to  let  Martha  and  her 
father  live  with  me  on  sufferance,  but  to  rejoice 
that  He  had  seen  fit  to  let  them  harass  and  embit 
ter  my  domestic  life? 

"I  thank  you  for  the  suggestion,"  I  said,  at  last. 

"I  want  to  say  one  thing  more,"  Mrs.  Campbell 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  201 

resumed,  after  another  pause.  "We  look  at  our 
fellow-men  too  much  from  the  stand-point  of  oni 
own  prejudices.  They  may  be  wrong,  they  may 
have  their  faults  and  foibles,  they  may  call  out  all 
that  is  meanest  and  most  hateful  in  us.  But  they 
are  not  all  wrong;  they  have  their  virtues,  and 
when  they  excite  our  bad  passions  by  their  own, 
they  may  be  as  ashamed  and  sorry  as  we  are  irrita 
ted.  And  I  think  some  of  the  best,  most  contrite, 
most  useful  of  men  and  women,  whose  prayers  pre 
vail  with  God  and  bring  down  blessings  into  the 
Jiomes  in  which  they  dwell,  often  possess  unlovely 
traits  that  furnish  them  with  their  best  discipline. 
The  very  fact  that  they  are  ashamed  of  themselves, 
drives  them  to  God;  they  feel  safe  in  His  presence, 
and  while  they  lie  in  the  very  dust  of  self-confusion 
at  His  feet  they  are  dear  to  Him  and  have  power 
wfth  Him." 

"  That  is  a  comforting  word,  and  I  thank  you  for 
it,"  I  said  My  heart  was  full,  and  I  longed  to 
stay  and  hear  her  talk  on.  But  I  had  already  ex 
hausted  her  strength.  On  the  way  home  I  feJt  as 
I  suppose  people  do,  when  they  have  caught  a  bas 
ket  full  of  fish.  I  always  am  delighted  to  catch  a 
new  idea,  I  thought  I  would  get  all  the  benefit  out 
of  Martha  and  her  father,  and  as  I  went  down  to 
tea,  after  taking  off  my  things,  felt  like  a  holy  mar 
tyr  who  hao^as  good  as  won  a  crown. 

9*  % 


202  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

I  found,  however,  that  the  butter  was  horrible, 
Martha  had  insisted  that  she  alone  was  capable  of 
selecting  that  article,  and  had  ordered  a  quantity 
from  her  own  village  which  I  could  not  eat  myself, 
and  was  ashamed  to  have  on  my  table.  I  pushed 
back  my  plate  in  disgust. 

"  I  hope,  Martha,  that  you  have  not  ordered  much 
of  this  odious  stuff!  "  I  cried. 

Martha  replied,  that  it  was  of  the  very  first  qual 
ity,  and  appealed  to  her  father  and  Ernest,  who  both 
agreed  with  her,  whic.li  I  thought  very  unkind  and 
unjust.  I  rushed  into  a  hot  debate  on  the  subject, 
during  which  Ernest  maintained  that  ominous  si 
lence  that  indicates  his  not  being  pleased,  and  that 
irritated  and  led  me  on.  I  would  far  rather  he 
should  say,  "Katy,  you  are  behaving  like  a  child, 
and  I  wish  you  would  stop  talking." 

"  Martha,"  I  said,  "  you  will  persist  that  the 
butter  is  good,  because  you  ordered  it.  If  yon  will 
only  own  that,  I  won't  say  another  word." 

"I  carit  say  it,"  she  returned.  "Mrs.  Jones's 
butter  is  invariably  good.  I  never  heard  it  found 
fault  with  before.  The  trouble  is  you  are  so  hard 
to  please." 

"  No,  I  am  not.  And  you  can't  convince  me  that 
if  the  butter-milk  is  not  perfectly  worked  out,  the 
butter  could  be  fit  to  eat." 

This  speech  I   felt  to   be  a  masterpiece.     It  was 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  203 

kimo  to  let  her  know  how  learned  I  was  on  the  sub 
ject  of  butter,  though  I  wasn't  brought  up  to  make 
it  or  see  it  made. 

But  here  Ernest  put  in  a  little  oil. 

"I  think  you  are  both  right,"  he  said.  "Mrs. 
Jones  makes  good  butter,  but  just  this  once  she 
failed.  1  dare  say  it  won't  happen  again,  and  mean 
while  this  can  be  used  for  making  seed-cakes,  and 
we  can  get  a  new  supply." 

This  was  his  masterpiece!  A  whole  firkin  of 
butter  made  up  into  seed-cakes! 

Martha  turned  to  encounter  him  on  that  head, 
and  I  slipped  off  to  my  room  to  look,  with  a  miser 
able  sense  of  disappointment,  at  my  folly  and  weak 
ness  in  making  so  much  ado  about  nothing.  I  find 
it  hard  to  believe  that  it  can  do  me  good  to  have 
people  live  with  me  who  like  rancid  butter,  and  who 
disagree  with  me  in  everything  else. 


XIII. 


MAECH  1. 

UNTY  sent  for  us  all  to  dine  with  he*  to- 
day  to  celebrate  Lucy's  fifteenth  birthday. 
Ever  since  Lucy  behaved  so  heroically  in 
regard  to  little  Emma,  really  saving  her 
life,  Ernest  says,  aunty  seems  to  feel  that  she  cannot 
do  enough  for  her.  The  child  has  taken  the  most 
unaccountable  fancy  to  me,  strangely  enough,  and 
when  we  got  there  she  came  to  meet  me  with  some 
thing  like  cordiality. 

"Mamma  permits  me  to  be  the  bearer  of  agree 
able  news,"  she  said,  "because  this  is  my  birthday 
A  friend,  of  whom  you  are  very  fond,  has  just  ar 
rived,  and  is  impatient  to  embrace  you." 

"To  embrace  me?"  I  cried.  "You  foolish  child!" 
And  the  next  moment  I  found  myself  in  my  mother's 
arms! 

The  despised  Lucy  had  been  the  means  of  giving 
me  this  pleasure.  It  seems  that  aunty  had  told  her 
she  should  choose  her  own  birthday  treat,  and  that, 
after  solemn  meditation,  she  had  decided  that  to  see 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  205 

dear  mother  again  would  be  the  most  agreeable 
thing  she  could  think  of.  I  have  never  told  you, 
dear  journal,  why  I  did  not  go  home  last  summerj 
and  never  shall.  If  you  choose  to  fancy  that  1 
couldn't  afford  it  you  can! 

Well!  wasn't  it  nice  to  see  mother,  and  to  read 
in  her  dear,  loving  face  that  she  was  satisfied  with 
her  poor,  wayward  Katy,  and  fond  of  her  as  ever! 
I  only  longed  for  Ernest's  coming,  that  she  might 
see  us  together,  and  see  how  he  loved  me. 

He  came;  I  rushed  out  to  meet  him  and  drag 
ged  him  in.  But  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  grown 
stupid  and  awkward.  All  through  the  dinner  I 
watched  for  one  of  those  loving  glances  which 
should  proclaim  to  mother  the  good  understanding 
between  us,  but  watched  in  vain. 

"It  will  come  by-and-by,"  I  thought.  "When 
we  get  by  ourselves  mother  will  see  how  fond  of 
me  he  is."  But  "by-and-by"  it  was  just  the  same. 
I  was  pre-occupied,  and  mother  asked  me  if  I  were 
well.  It  was  all  very  foolish  I  dare  say,  and  yet  I 
did  want  to  have  her  know  that  with  all  my  faults 
ho  still  loves  me.  Then,  besides  this  disappoint 
ment,  I  have  to  reproach  myself  for  misunderstand 
ing  poor  Lucy  as  I  have  done.  Because  she  was 
not  all  fire  and  fury  like  myself,  I  need  not  have  as 
sumed  that  she  had  no  heart.  It  is  just  like  me;  1 
hope  I  shall  never  be  so  severe  in  my  judgment  again 


20(5  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

APRIL    30.  —  Mother    has    just    gone.     Ret 

visit  has  done  me  a  world  of  good.  She  found  out 
something  to  like  in  father  at  once,  and  then  some 
thing  good  in  Martha.  She  says  father's  sufferings 
are  real,  not  fancied;  that  his  error  is  not  knowing 
where  to  locate  his  disease,  and  is  starving  one 
week  and  over-eating  the  next  She  charged  me 
not  to  lay  up  future  misery  for  myself  by  mis 
judging  him  now,  and  to  treat  him  as  a  daughter 
ought  without  the  smallest  regard  to  his  apprecia 
tion  of  it.  Then  as  to  Martha,  she  declares  tliat  1 
have  no  idea  how  much  she  does  to  reduce  our  ex* 
penses,  to  keep  the  house  in  order  and  relieve  us 
from  care.  "  But,  mother,"  I  said,  "  did  you  notice 
what  horrid  butter  we  have?  And  it  is  all  her 
doing." 

"But  the  butter  won't  last  forever,"  she  replied. 
"Don't  make  yourself  miserable  about  such  a 
trifle.  For  my  part,  it  is  a  great  relief  to  me  to 
know  that  with  your  delicate  health  you  have  this 
tower  of  strength  to  lean  on." 

"  But  my  health  is  not  delicate,  mother." 
"  You  certainly  look  pale  and  thin." 
"Oh,  well,"  I  said,  whereupon  she  fell  to  giving 
me  all  sorts  of  advice  about  getting  up  on  step-lad 
ders,  and  climbing  on  chairs,  and  sewing  too  much, 
and  all  that 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  207 

JUNE  15.  —  The  weather,  or  something, 

makes  me  rather  languid  and  stupid.  I  begin  to 
think  that  Martha  is  not  an  entire  nuisance  in  the 
house.  I  have  just  been  to  see  Mrs.  Campbell.  In 
answer  to  my  routine  cf  lamentations,  she  took  up 
a  book  and  read  me  what  was  called,  as  nearly  as  I 
can  remember,  "Four  steps  that  lead  to  peace." 

"  Be  desirous  of  doing  the  will  of  another,  rather 
than  thine  own." 

"Choose  always  to  have  less,  rather  than  more." 

"  Seek  always  the  lowest  place,  and  to  be  inferior 
to  every  one." 

"Wish  always,  and  pray,  that  the  will  of  God 
may  be  wholly  fulfilled  in  thee." 

I  was  much  struck  with  these  directions;  but  1 
said,  despondently: 

"If  peace  can  only  be  found  at  the  end  of  such 
hard  roads,  I  am  sure  I  shall  always  be  miserable." 

"Are  you  miserable  now?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  just  now  I  am.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  have 
no  happiness;  I  mean  that  I  am  in  a  disheartened 
mood,  weary  of  going  round  and  round  in  circles, 
committing  the  same  sins,  uttering  the  same  confes 
sions,  and  making  no  advance." 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  after  a  time,  "have  you  a 
perfectly  distinct,  settled  view  of  what  Christ  is  to 
the  human  soul?" 

*'  I  do  not  know.     I  understand,  of  course,  rnor$ 


208  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

or  less  perfectly,  that  my  salvation  depends  on  Him 
alone;  is  His  gift." 

44  But  do  you  see,  with  equal  clearness,  that  your 
sanctification  must  be  as  fully  His  gift,  as  your  sal 
vation  is  ?  " 

44  No,"  I  said,  after  a  little  thought.  44 1  have  had 
a  feeling  that  He  has  done  His  part,  and  now  I 
must  do  mine." 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  with  much  tenderness  and 
feeling,  4tthen  the  first  thing  you  have  to  do  is  to 
learn  Christ." 

"But  how?" 

u  On  your  knees,  my  child,  on  your  knees ! "  She 
was  tired,  and  I  came  away;  and  I  have  indeed 
been  on  my  knees. 

JULY  1. — I  think  tha!  I  do  begin,  dimly  it  is 

true,  but  really,  to  understand  that  this  terrible 
work  which  I  was  trying  to  do  myself,  is  Christ's 
work,  and  must  be  done  and  will  be  done  by  Him. 
I  take  some  pleasure  in  the  thought,  and  wonder 
why  it  has  all  this  time  been  hidden  from  me,  espe 
cially  after  what  Dr.  C.  said  in  his  letter.  But  I 
get  hold  of  this  idea  in  a  misty,  unsatisfactory  way. 
If  Christ  is  to  do  all,  what  am  I  to  do?  And  have 
I  not  been  told,  over  and  over  again,  that  the  Chris 
tian  life  is  one  of  conflict,  and  that  I  am  to  fight 
like  a  good  soldier? 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  209 

AUGUST   5. — Dr.    Cabot  has   come  just  as  I 

need  him  most.  I  long  for  one  of  those  good  talks 
with  him  which  always  used  to  strengthen  me  so. 
F  feel  a  perfect  weight  of  depression  that  makes  me 
a  burden  to  myself  and  to  poor  Ernest,  who,  after 
visiting  sick  people  all  day,  needs  to  come  home  to 
a  cheerful  wife.  But  he  comforts  me  with  the  as 
surance  that  this  is  merely  physical  despondency, 
and  that  I  shall  get  over  it  by  and  by.  How  kind, 
how  even  tender  he  is !  My  heart  is  getting  all  it 
wants  from  him,  only  I  am  too  stupid  to  enjoy  him 
as  I  ought.  Father,  too,  talks  far  less  about  hia 
own  bad  feelings,  and  seems  greatly  concerned  at 
mine.  As  to  Martha  I  have  done  trying  to  get 
sympathy  or  love  from  her.  She  cannot  help  it,  I 
suppose,  but  she  is  very  hard  and  dry  towards  me, 
and  I  feel  such  a  longing  to  throw  myself  on  her 
mercy,  and  to  have  one  little  smile  to  assure  me 
that  she  has  forgiven  me  for  being  Ernest's  wife, 
and  so  different  from  what  she  would  have  chosen 
for  him. 

Dr.  Elliott  to  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

OCTOBEB  4,  1838. 

Mr  DEAR  KATY'S  MOTHER  : — You  will  rejoice  with 
us  when  I  tell  you  that  we  are  the  happy  par 
ents  of  a  very  fine  little  boy.  My  dearest  wife 
sends  "an  ocean  of  love"  to  vou.  and  ws  she  wjJJ 


210  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

write  herself  tomorrow.  That  I  shall  not  be  very 
likely  to  allow,  as  you  will  imagine.  She  is  doing 
extremely  well,  and  we  have  everything  to  be  grate 
ful  for.  Your  affectionate  Son, 

J.  E.  ELLIOTT. 

Mrs.  Crofton  to  Mrs   Mortimer: 

I  am  sure,  my  dear  sister,  that  the  doctor  has  not 
written  you  more  than  five  lines  about  the  great 
event  which  has  made  such  a  stir  in  our  domestio 
circle.  So  I  must  try  to  supply  the  details  you 
will  want  to  hear.  ...  I  need  not  add  that  our 
darling  Katy  behaved  nobly.  Her  self-forgetful- 
ness  and  consideration  for  others  were  really  beau 
tiful  throughout  the  whole  scene.  The  doctor  may 
well  be  proud  of  her,  and  I  took  care  to  tell  him 
so  in  presence  of  that  dreadful  sister  of  his.  I 
never  met  so  angular,  so  uncompromising  a  person 
as  she  is  in  all  my  life.  She  does  not  understand 
Katy,  and  never  can,  and  I  find  it  hard  to  realize 
that  living  with  such  a  person  can  furnish  a  whole 
some  discipline,  which  is  even  more  desirable  than 
the  most  delightful  home.  And  yet  I  not  only  know 
that  this  is  true  in  the  abstract,  but  I  see  that  it  is 
so  in  the  actual  fact.  Katy  is  acquiring  both  self- 
control  and  patience,  and  her  Christian  character 
is  developing  in  a  way  that  amazes  me.  I  cannot 
but  hope  that  God  will,  in  time,  deliver  her  fVojp 


STFPPING  HEAVENWARD.  211 

this  trial ;  indeed,  I  feel  sure  that  when  it  has  done 
its  beneficent  work  He  will  do  so.  Martha  Elliott 
is  a  good  woman,  but  her  goodness  is  without  grace 
or  beauty.  She  takes  excellent  care  of  Katy,  keeps 
her  looking  as  if  she  had  just  come  out  of  a  band 
box,  as  the  saying  is,  and  always  has  her  room  in 
perfect  order.  But  one  misses  the  loving  word, 
the  re-assuring  smile,  the  delicate,  thoughtful  little 
forbearance,  that  ought  to  adorn  every  sick-room, 
and  light  it  up  with  genuine  sunshine.  There  is 
one  comfort  about  it,  however,  and  that  is,  that  I 
can  spoil  dear  Katy  to  my  heart's  content 

As  to  the  baby,  he  is  a  fine  little  fellow,  and  hia 
mother  is  so  happy  in  him  that  she  can  afford  to  do 
without  some  other  pleasures.  I  shall  write  again 
in  a  few  days.  Meanwhile,  you  may  rest  assured 
that  I  love  your  Katy  almost  as  well  as  you  do,  and 
shall  be  with  her  most  of  the  time  till  she  is  quite 
herself  again. 

James  to  his  mother: 

Of  course  there  never  was  such  a  baby  before  OD 
the  face  of  the  earth.  Katy  is  so  nearly  wild  with 
joy,  that  you  can't  get  her  to  eat  or  sleep  or  do  any 
of  the  proper  things  that  her  charming  sister-in-law 
thinks  becoming  under  the  circumstances.  You 
never  saw  anything  so  pretty  in  your  life,  as  she  is 
now.  I  hope  the  doctor  is  as  much  in  love  with 


212  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

her  as  I  am.     He  is  the  best  fellow  in  the  world 
and  Katy  is  just  the  wife  for  him. 

Nov.  4. — My  darling  baby  is  a  month  old 

to-day,     I  never  saw  such  a  splendid  child.     I  love 
him  so  that  I  lie  awake  nights  to  watch  him.     Mar- 
tha  says,  in  her  dry  way,  that  I  had  better  show  my 
love  by  sleeping  and  eating  for  him,  and  Ernest 
says  I  shall,  as  soon  as  I  get  stronger.     But  I  don't 
get  strong,  and  that  discourages  me. 

Nov.  26. — I  begin  to  feel  rather  more   like 

myself,  and  as  if  I  could  write  with  less  labor.     I 
have  had  in  these  few  past  weeks  such  a  revelation 
of  suffering,  and  such  a  revelation  of  joy,  as  mortal 
mind  can  hardly  conceive  of.     The  world  I  live  in 
now  is  a  new  world;  a  world  full  of  suffering  that 
leads    to    unutterable    felicity.     Oh,    this    precious, 
precious  baby!     How  can  I  thank  God  enough  for 
giving  him  to  me  ! 

I  see  now  why  He  has  put  some  thorns  into  my 
domestic  life;  but  for  them  I  should  be  too  happy 
to  live.  It  does  not  seem  just  the  moment  to  com 
plain,  and  yet,  as  I  can  speak  to  no  one,  it  is  a  re 
lief,  a  great  relief,  to  write  about  my  trials.  Dur 
ing  my  whole  sickness,  Martha  has  been  SG  hard,  so 
cold,  so  un sympathizing  that  sometimes  it  has 
seemed  as  if  my  cup  of  trial  could  not  hold  anothet 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  213 

drop.  She  routed  me  out  of  bed  when  I  was  so 
languid  that  everything  seemed  a  burden,  and 
when  sitting  up  made  me  faint  away.  I  heard  her 
say  to  herself,  that  I  had  no  constitution  and  had 
no  business  to  get  married.  The  worst  of  all  is 
that  during  that  dreadful  night  before  baby  came, 
she  kept  asking  Ernest  to  lie  down  and  rest,  and 
was  sure  he  would  kill  himself,  and  all  that,  while 
she  had  not  one  word  of  pity  for  me.  But,  oh, 
why  need  I  let  this  rankle  in  my  heart !  Why  can 
not  I  turn  my  thoughts  entirely  to  my  darling 
baby,  my  dear  husband,  and  all  the  other  sources 
of  joy  that  make  my  home  a  happy  one  in  spite  of 
this  one  discomfort!  I  hope  I  am  learning  some 
useful  lessons  from  my  joys  and  from  my  trials,  and 
that  both  will  serve  to  make  me  in  earnest,  and  to 
seep  me  so. 

DEC.  4. — We  have  had  a  great  time  about 

poor  baby's  name.  I  expected  to  call  him  Ray 
mond,  for  my  own  dear  father,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  It  seemed  a  small  gratification  for  mother 
in  her  loneliness.  Dear  mother !  How  little  I 
have  known,  all  these  years,  what  I  cost  her!  But 
it  seems  there  has  been  a  Jotham  in  the  family  ever 
since  the  memory  qf  man,  each  eldest  son  handing 
down  his  father's  name  to  the  next  in  descent,  and 
Ernest's  real  name  is  Jotham  Ernest — of  all  the  ex- 


214  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

traordinary  combinations !  His  mother  would  add 
the  latter  name  in  spite  of  everything.  Ernest  be 
haved  very  well  through  the  whole  affair,  and  said 
he  had  no  feeling  about  it  all.  But  he  was  so 
gratified  when  I  decided  to  keep  up  the  family  cus 
tom  that  I  feel  rewarded  for  the  sacrifice. 

Father  is  in  one  of  his  gloomiest  moods.  As  I 
sat  caressing  baby  to-day  he  said  to  me, 

"Daughtei  Katherine,  I  trust  you  make  it  a  sub 
ject  of  prayer  to  God  that  you  may  be  kept  from 
idolatry." 

"No,  father,"  I  returned,  "I  never  do.  An  idol 
is  something  one  puts  in  God's  place,  and  I  don't 
put  baby  there." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  said  the  heart  is  deceitful 
above  all  things,  and  desperately  wicked. 

"  I  have  heard  mother  say  that  we  might  love  an 
earthly  object  as  much  as  we  pleased,  if  we  only 
love  God  better."  I  might  have  added,  but  of 
course  I  didn't,  that  I  prayed  every  day  that  I 
might  love  Ernest  and  baby  better  and  better.  Poor 
father  seemed  puzzled  and  troubled  by  what  I  did 
say,  and  after  musing  awhile,  went  on  thus: 

"The  Almighty  is  a  great  and  terrible  Being. 
lie  cannot  bear  a  rival;  He  will  have  the  whole 
heart  or  none  of  it.  When  I  see  a  young  woman 
go  absorbed  in  a  created  being  as  you  are  in  that 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  215 

infant,  and  in  your  other  friends,  I  tremble  for  yon, 
I  tremble  for  you  !  " 

"But,  father,"  I  persisted,  "God  gave  me  tliii 
child,  and  He  gave  me  my  heart,  just  as  it  is." 

4  Yes;  and  that  heart  needs  renewing." 

"1  hope  it  is  renewed,"  I  replied.  "But  I  know 
there  is  a  great  work  still  to  be  done  in  it.  And 
the  more  effectually  it  is  done  the  more  loving  I 
shall  grow.  Don't  you  see,  father?  Don't  you  see 
that  the  more  Christ-like  I  become,  the  more  I  shall 
be  filled  with  love  for  every  living  thing?" 

He  shook  his  head,  but  pondered  long,  as  he  al 
ways  does,  on  whatever  he  considers  audacious. 
As  for  me,  I  am  vexed  with  my  presumption  in  dis 
puting  with  him,  and  am  sure,  too,  that  I  was  try 
ing  to  show  off  what  little  wisdom  I  have  picked 
up.  Besides,  my  mountain  does  not  stand  so  strong 
as  it  did.  Perhaps  I  am  making  idols  out  of  Ernest 
and  the  baby. 

JANUARY  16,  1839. — This  is  our  second  wed 
ding-day.  1  did  not  expect  much  from  it,  after  last 
year's  failure.  Father  was  very  gloomy  at  break 
fast,  and  retired  to  his  room  directly  after  it.  Nc 
one  could  get  in  to  make  his  bed,  and  he  would  not 
come  down  to  dinner.  I  wonder  Ernest  lets  him 
go  on  so.  But  his  rule  seems  to  be  to  let  every 
body  have  their  own  way.  He  certainly  lots  m« 


216  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

have  mine.  After  dinner  he  gave  me  a  book  I  have 
been  wanting  for  some  time,  and  had  asked  him  foi 
— The  Imitation  of  Christ.  Ever  since  that  day  at 
Mrs.  Campbell's,  I  have  felt  that  I  should  like  it, 
though  I  did  think,  in  old  times,  that  it  preached 
too  hard  a  doctrine.  I  read  aloud  to  him  the  t:  Four 
steps  to  peace;"  he  said  they  were  admirable,  and 
then  took  it  from  me  and  began  reading  to  himself, 
here  and  there.  I  felt  the  precious  moments  when 
I  had  got  him  all  to  myself  were  passing  away,  and 
was  becoming  quite  out  of  patience  with  him  when 
the  words,  "Constantly  seek  to  have  less,  rather 
than  more,"  flashed  into  my  mind.  I  suppose  this 
direction  had  reference  to  worldly  good,  but  I  des 
pise  money,  and  despise  people  who  love  it.  The 
riches  I  crave  are  not  silver  and  gold,  but  my  hus 
band's  love  and  esteem.  And  of  these  must  I  de 
sire  to  have  less  rather  than  more  ?  I  puzzled  my 
self  over  this  question  in  vain,  but  when  I  silently 
prayed  to  be  satisfied  with  just  what  God  chose  to 
give  me  of  the  wealth  I  crave,  yes,  hunger  and 
thirst  for,  I  certainly  felt  a  sweet  content,  for  the 
time  at  least,  that  was  quite  resting  and  quieting. 
And  just  as  I  had  reached  that  acquiescent  mood, 
Ernest  threw  down  his  book,  and  came  and  caught 
me  in  his  arms. 

"I  thank  God,"  he  said,  "my  precious  wife,  that 
I  married  you  this  day.     The  wisest  thing  I  evei 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  217 

did,  was  when  I  fell  in  love  with  you  and  made  a 

fool  of  myself  1 " 

.  What  a  speech  for  my  silent  old  darling  to  make ! 
Whenever  he  says  and  does  a  thing  out  of  charac 
ter,  and  takes  me  all  by  surprise,  how  delightful  he 
is!  Now  the  world  is  a  beautiful  world,  and  so  is 
everybody  in  it.  I  met  Martha  on  the  stairs  after 
Ernest  had  gone,  and  caught  her  and  kissed  her. 
She  looked  perfectly  astonished. 

"  What  spirits  the  child  has  !  "  I  heard  her  whis 
per  to  herself:  uno  sooner  down  than  up  again." 

And  she  sighed.  Can  it  be  that  under  that  stern 
and  hard  crust,  there  lie  hidden  affections  and  per 
haps  hidden  sorrows? 

I  ran  back  and  asked,  as  kindly  as  I  could,  "  What 
makes  you  sigh,  Martha?  Is  anything  troubling 
you?  Have  I  done  anything  to  annoy  you?" 

"You  do  the  best  you  can,"  she  said,  and  pushed 
past  me  to  her  own  room 


XIV. 

JAN.  30. 

II 0  would  Lave  thought  I  would  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  poor  old  Susan 
Green  ?  Dr.  Cabot  came  to  see  me  to-day, 
and  told  me  the  strangest  thing !  It  seems, 
that  the  nurse  who  performed  the  last  offices  for 
her  was  taken  sick  about  six  months  ago,  and  that 
Dr.  Cabot  visited  her  from  time  to  time.  Hei 
physician  "said  she  needed  nothing  but  rest  and 
good,  nourishing  food,  to  restore  her  strength,  yet 
she  did  not  improve  at  all,  and  at  last  it  came  out 
that  she  was  not  taking  the  food  the  doctor  ordered, 
because  she  could  not  afford  to  do  so,  having  lost 
what  little  money  she  had  contrived  to  save.  Dr. 
Cabot,  on  learning  this,  gave  her  enough  out  of 
Susan's  legacy  to  meet  her  case,  and  in  doing  so 
told  her  about  that  extraordinary  will.  The  nurse 
then  assured  him  that  when  she  reached  Susan's 
room  and  found  the  state  that  she  was  in,  and  that 
1  was  praying  with  her,  she  had  remained  waiting 
in  silence  fearing  to  interrupt  me.  She  saw  me 
(218) 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  213 

faint,  and  sprang  forward  just  in  time  to  catch  me 
and  keep  me  from  falling. 

"  1  take  great  pleasure,  therefore,"  Dr.  Cabot  con- 
tinned,  "in  making  over  Susan's  little  property 
to  you,  to  whom  it  belongs;  and  I  cannot  help 
congratulating  you  that  you  have  had  the  honor  and 
the  privilege  of  perhaps  leading  that  poor,  benighted 
soul  to  Christ,  even  at  the  eleventh  hour." 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Cabot !  "  I  cried,  "  what  a  relief  it  is  to 
hear  you  say  that!  For  I  have  always  reproached 
myself  for  the  cowardice  that  made  me  afraid  to 
speak  to  her  of  her  Saviour.  It  take  less  courage 
to  speak  to  God  than  to  man." 

"It  is  my  belief,"  replied  Dr.  Cabot,  "that  every 
prayer  offered'  in  the  name  of  Jesus,  is  sure  to  have 
its  answer.  Every  such  prayer  is  dictated  by  the 
Holy  Spirit,  and  therefore  finds  acceptance  with 
God;  and  if  your  cry  for  mercy  on  poor  Susan's 
soul  did  not  prevail  with  him  in  her  behalf,  as  we 
may  hope  it  did,  then  He  has  answered  it  in  some 
other  way." 

These  words  impressed  me  very  much.  To  think 
that  every  one  of  my  poor  prayers  is  answered  I 
Every  one ! 

Dr.  Cabot  then  returned  to  the  subject  of  Susan  a 
will,  and  in  spite  of  all  I  could  say  to  the  contrary, 
insisted  that  he  had  no  legal  right  to  this  money,  and 
that  I  had.  He  said  he  hoped  that  it  would  help  to 


220  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD, 

relieve  us  from  some  of  the  petty  economies  now 
rendered  necessary  by  Ernest's  struggle  to  meet  his 
father's  liabilities.  Instantly  my  idol  was  rudely 
thrown  down  from  his  pedestal.  How  could  he  re 
veal  to  Dr.  Cabot  a  secret  he  had  pretended  it  cost 
him  so  much  to  confide  to  me,  his  wife?  I  could 
hardly  restrain  tears  of  shame  and  vexation,  but  did 
control  myself  so  far  as  to  say  that  I  would  sooner 
die  than  appropriate  Susan's  hard  earnings  to  such 
a  purpose,  and  that  I  should  use  it  for  the  poor,  as  I 
was  sure  he  would  have  done.  He  then  advised  me 
to  invest  the  principle,  and  use  the  interest  from 
year  to  year,  as  occasions  presented  themselves.  So 
I  shall  have  more  than  a  hundred  dollars  to  give 
away  each  year,  as  long  as  I  live!  How  perfectly 
delightful.  I  can  hardly  conceive  of  anything  that 
could  give  me  so  much  pleasure!  Poor  old 
Susan!  How  many  hearts  she  shall  cause  to  sing 
for  joy ! 

FEB.  25. — Things  have  not  gone  on  well  of 

late.  Dearly  as  I  love  Ernest,  he  has  lowered  him 
self  in  my  eye  by  telling  that  to  Dr.  Cabot.  It 
would  have  been  far  nobler  to  be  silent  concerning 
his  sacrifices;  and  he  certainly  grows  harder, 
graver,  sterner,  every  day.  He  is  all  shut  up  within 
himself,  and  I  am  growing  afraid  of  him.  It  must 
be  that  he  is  bitterly  disappointed  in  me,  and  takes 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  22\ 

refuge  in  this  awful  silence.  Oh,  if  I  could  only 
please  h  m,  and  could  know  that  I  pleased  him,  hovi 
different  my  life  would  be! 

Baby  does  not  seem  well.  I  have  often  plumed 
myself  on  the  thought  that  having  a  doctor  for  hig 
father  would  be  such  an  advantage  to  him,  as  he 
would  be  ready  to  attack  the  first  symptoms  of  dis 
ease.  But  Ernest  hardly  listens  to  me  when  I  ex 
press  anxiety  about  this  or  that,  and  if  I  ask  a  ques 
tion  he  replies,  "Oh,  you  know  better  than  I  do. 
Mathers  know  by  instinct  how  to  manage  babies." 
But  I  do  not  know  by  instinct,  or  in  any  other 
way,  and  I  often  wish  that  the  time  I  spent  over  my 
music  had  been  spent  in  learning  how  to  meet  all 
the  little  emergencies  that  are  constantly  arising 
since  baby  came.  How  I  used  to  laugh  in  my 
sleeve  at  those  anxious  mothers  who  lived  near  us 
and  always  seemed  to  be  in  hot  water.  Martha  will 
take  baby  when  I  have  other  things  to  attend  to, 
and  she  keeps  him  every  Sunday  afternoon  that  I 
may  go  to  church,  but  she  knows  no  more  about  his 
physical  training  than  I  do.  If  my  dear  mother 
were  only  here!  I  feel  a  good  deal  worn  out, 
What  with  the  care  of  baby,  who  is  restless  at 
night,  and  with  whom  I  walk  about  lest  he  should 
keep  Ernest  awake,  the  depressing  influence  of  fa 
ther's  presence,  Martha's  disdain,  and  Ernest's  keep 
ing  so  aloof  from  me,  life  seems  to  me  little  bettei 


222  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

than  a  burden  that  I  have  not  strength  to  carry  and 
would  gladly  lay  down. 

MARCH  3. —  If  it  were  not  for  James  I  be 
lie  ^e  1  should  sink.  He  is  so  kind  and  affectionate, 
so  ready  to  fill  up  the  gaps  Ernest  leaves  empty, 
and  is  so  sunshiny  and  gay  that  I  cannot  be  en 
tirely  sad.  Baby,  too,  is  a  precious  treasure;  it 
would  be  wicked  to  cloud  his  little  life  with  my  de 
pression.  I  try  to  look  at  him  always  with  a  smil 
ing  face,  for  he  already  distinguishes  between  a 
cheerful  and  a  sad  countenance. 

I  am  sure  that  there  is  something  in  Christ's  gos 
pel  that  would  soothe  and  sustain  me  amid  these 
varied  trials,  if  I  only  knew  what  it  is,  and  how  to 
put  forth  my  hand  and  take  it.  But  as  it  is  I  feel 
very  desolate.  Ernest  often  congratulates  me  on 
having  had  such  a  good  night's  rest,  when  I  have 
been  up  and  down  every  hour  with  baby,  half  asleep 
and  frozen  and  exhausted.  But  he  shall  sleep  at 
any  rate. 

APRIL  5. — The  first  rays  of  spring  make  me 

more  languid  than  ever.  Martha  cannot  be  made 
to  understand  that  nursing  such  a  large,  voracious 
baby,  losing  sleep,  and  confinement  within  doors, 
are  enough  to  account  for  this.  She  is  constantly 
ipeaking  in  terms  of  praise  of  those  who  keep  up 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 


even  when  they  do  feel  a  little  out  of  sorts,  and 
says  she  always  does.  In  the  evening,  after  baby 
gets  to  sleep  I  feel  fit  for  nothing  but  to  lie  on  the 
sofa,  dozing  ;  but  she  sees  in  this  only  a  lazy  habit, 
which  ought  not  to  be  tolerated,  and  is  constantly 
devising  ways  to  rouse  and  set  me  at  work.  If  1 
had  more  leisure  for  reading,  meditation  and  prayer, 
I  might  still  be  happy.  But  all  the  morning  I  must 
have  baby  till  he  takes  his  nap,  and  as  soon  as 
he  gets  to  sleep  I  must  put  my  room  in  order,  and 
by  that  time  all  the  best  part  of  the  day  is  gone. 
And  at  night  I  am  so  tired  that  I  can  hardly  feel 
anything  but  my  weariness.  That,  too,  is  my  only 
chance  of  seeing  Ernest,  and  if  I  lock  my  door  and 
fall  upon  my  knees,  I  keep  listening  for  his  step, 
ready  to  spring  to  welcome  him  should  he  come. 
This  is  wrong,  I  know,  but  how  can  I  live  without 
one  loving  word  from  him,  and  every  day  I  am 
hoping  it  will  come 

-  MAY  2.  —  Aunty  was  here  to-day.  I  had  not 
seen  her  for  some  weeks.  She  exclaimed  at  my 
looks  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  upbraid  Ernest  and 
Martha,  though  of  course  she  did  not  mean  to  do  that. 

"You  are  not  fit  to  have  the  whole  care  of  that 
great  boy  at  night,"  said  she,  "  and  you  ought  to 
begin  to  feed  him,  both  for  his  sake  and  your  own." 

"  I  am  willing  to  take  the  child  at  night,"  Martha 


224  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

§aid,  a  little  stiffly.  "But  I  supposed  his  mothei 
preferred  to  keep  him  herself." 

"And  so  I  do,"  I  cried.  "I  should  be  perfectly 
miserable  if  I  had  to  give  him  up  just  as  he  is  get 
ting  teeth,  and  so  wakeful." 

"  What  are  you  taking  to  keep  up  your  strength, 
dear?"  asked  aunty. 

"Nothing  in  particular,"  I  said. 

"Very  well,  it  is  time  the  doctor  looked  after 
that,"  she  cried.  "  It  really  never  will  do  to  let  you 
run  down  in  this  way.  Let  me  look  at  baby.  Why, 
my  child,  his  gums  need  lancing." 

"  So  I  have  told  Ernest  half  a  dozen  times,"  I  de 
clared.  "But  he  is  always  in  a  hurry,  and  says 
another  time  will  do." 

"  I  hope  baby  won't  have  convulsions  while  he  is 
waiting  for  that  other  time,"  said  aunty,  looking 
almost  savagely  at  Martha.  I  never  saw  aunty  so 
nearly  out  of  humor. 

At  dinner  Martha  began. 

"  I  think,  brother,  the  baby  needs  attention.  Mrs, 
Crofton  has  been  here  and  says  so.  And  she  seems 
to  find  Katherine  run  down.  I  am  sure  if  I  had 
known  it  I  should  have  taken  her  in  hand  and  built 
her  up.  But  she  did  not  complain." 

"  She  never  complains,"  father  here  put  in,  calling 
all  the  blood  I  had  into  my  face>  my  heart  so  leaped 
for  joy  at  his  kind  word. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  225 

Ernest  looked  at  me  and  caught  the  illumination 
)f  my  face. 

"  You  look  well,  dear,"  he  said.  "  But  if  you  do 
not  feel  so  you  ought  to  tell  us.  As  to  baby,  I  will 
attend  to  him  directly." 

So  Martha's  one  word  prevailed  where  my  twen 
ty  fell  to  the  ground. 

Baby  is  much  relieved,  and  has  fallen  into  a  sweet 
sleep.  And  I  have  had  time  to  carry  my  tired,  op 
pressed  heart  to  my  compassionate  Saviour,  and  to 
tell  Him  what  I  cannot  utter  to  any  human  ear. 
How  strange  it  is  that  when,  through  many  years  of 
leisure  and  strength,  prayer  was  only  a  task,  it  is 
now  my  chief  solace  if  I  can  only  snatch  time  for  it. 

Mrs.  Embury  has  a  little  daughter.  How  glad  I 
am  for  her!  She  is  going  to  give  it  my  name! 
That  is  a  real  pleasure. 

JULY  4 — Baby  is  ten  months  old  to-day,  and 

in  spite  of  everything  is  bright  and  well.  I  have 
come  home  to  mother.  Ernest  waked  up  at  last  to 
see  that  something  must  be  done,  and  when  ho  is 
awake  he  is  very  wide  awake.  So  he  brought  me 
home.  Dear  mother  is  perfectly  delighted,  only 
she  will  make  an  ado  about  my  health.  But  I  feel 
a  good  deal  better,  and  think  I  shall  get  nicely  rested 
here.  How  pleasant  it  is  to  feel  myself  watched 
by  friendly  eyes,  my  faults  excused  and  forgiven, 
If 


226  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

and  what  is  best  in  me  called  out.  I  have  been 
writing  to  Ernest,  and  have  told  him  honestly,  how 
annoyed  and  pained  I  was  at  learning  that  he  had 

told  his  secret  to  Dr.  Cabot. 

.. 

JULY  12. — Ernest  writes  that  he  has  had  no 

communication  with  Dr.  Cabot  or  anj  one  else  on 
a  subject,  that  touching  his  father's  hon^r  as  it  does, 
he  regards  as  a  sacred  one. 

"You  say,  dear,"  he  said,  "you  often  say,  that  I 
do  not  understand  you.  Are  you  sure  that  you  un 
derstand  me?" 

Of  course  I  don't.  How  can  I?  How  can  I 
reconcile  his  marrying  me  and  professing  to  do  it 
with  delight,  with  his  indifference  to  my  society,  his 
reserve,  his  carelessness  about  my  health? 

But  his  letters  are  very  kind,  and  really  warmer 
than  he  is.  I  can  hardly  wait  for  them,  and  then, 
though  my  pride  bids  me  to  be  reticent  as  he  is  my 
heart  runs  away  with  me,  and  I  pour  out  upon  him 
such  floods  of  affection  that  I  am  sure  he  is  half 
drowned. 

Mother  says  baby  is  splendid. 

AUGUST  1. — When  I  took  leave  of  Ernest  1 

was  glad  to  get  away.  I  thought  he  would  per 
haps  find  after  I  was  gone  that  he  missed  something 
out  of  his  life  and  would  welcome  me  home  with  a 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  227 

little  of  the  old  love.  But  I  did  not  dream  that  he 
would  not  find  it  easy  to  do  without  me  till  summer 
was  over,  and  when,  this  morning,  he  came  sud- 
daily  upon  us,  carpet-bag  in  hand,  I  could  do 
IK. thing  but  cry  in  his  arms  like  a  tired  child. 

And  now  I  had  the  silly  triumph  of  having  mo 
ther  see  that  he  loved  me ! 

"How  could  you  get  away?"  I  asked  at  last. 
"And  what  made  you  come?  And  how  long  can 
you  stay  ?  " 

"I  could  get  away  because  I  would"  he  replied. 
44  And  I  came  because  I  wanted  to  come.  And  I 
can  stay  three  days." 

Three  days  of  Ernest  all  to  myself! 

AUGUST  5. — He  has  gone,  but  he  has  left 

behind  him  a  happy  wife  and  the  memory  of  three 
iiappy  days. 

After  the  first  joy  of  our  meeting  was  over,  we 
had  time  for  just  such  nice  long  talks  as  I  delight 
in.  Ernest  began  by  upbraiding  me  a  little  for  my 
injustice  in  fancying  he  had  betrayed  his  father  to 
Dr.  Cabot. 

"  That  is  not  all,"  I  interrupted,  "  I  even  thought  you 
bad  made  a  boast  of  the  sacrifices  you  were  making.*1 

44  That  explains  your  coldness,"  he  returned. 

44 My  coldness!  Of  all  the  ridiculous  things  in 
the  world ! "  I  cried. 


228  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"  You  were  cold,  for  you  and  I  felt  it  Don't  yoi 
know  that  we  undemonstrative  men  prefer  loving 
winsome  little  women  like  you,  just  because  you  are 
our  own  opposites  ?  And  when  the  pet  kitten  turns 
into  a  cat  with  claws — " 

'Now,  Ernest,  that  is  really  too  bad!  To  com 
pare  me  to  a  cat ! " 

44  You  certainly  did  say  some  sharp  things  to  me 
about  that  time." 

"  Did  I,  really  ?     Oh,  Ernest,  how  could  I  ?  " 

"And  it  was  at  a  moment  when  I  particularly 
needed  your  help.  But  do  not  let  us  dwell  upon  it. 
We  love  each  other;  we  are  both  trying  to  do  right 
in  all  the  details  of  life.  I  do  not  think  we  shall 
ever  get  very  far  apart." 

"But,  Ernest — tell  me — are  you  very,  very  much 
disappointed  in  me  ?  " 

44  Disappointed  ?    Why,  Katy ! " 

"Then  what  did  make  you  seem  so  indifferent? 
What  made  you  so  slow  to  observe  how  miserably 
I  was,  as  to  health  ?  " 

44 Did  I  seem  indifferent?  I  am  sure  I  never  loved 
you  better.  As  to  your  health,  I  am  ashamed  of 
myself.  I  ought  to  have  seen  how  feeble  you  were 
But  the  truth  is,  I  was  deceived  by  your  bright 
ways  witb  baby.  For  him  you  were  all  smiles  and 
gayety." 

"That    was    from    principle,"    I    said,    and    felt 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  229 

a  good  deal  elated  as  I  made  the  announce 
ment. 

He  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing,  and  none  of  my  usual 
devices  for  arousing  him  had  any  effect. .  I  pulled 
his  hair  and  his  ears,  and  shook  him,  but  he  re 
mained  unmoved. 

At  last  he  began  again. 

"  Perhaps  I  owe  it  to  you,  dear,  to  tell  you  that 
when  I  brought  my  father  and  sister  home  to  live 
with  us,  I  did  not  dream  how  trying  a  thing  it 
would  be  to  you.  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  a 
confirmed  invalid,  or  that  she  would  prove  to  pos 
sess  a  nature  so  entirely  antagonistic  to  yours.  I 
thought  my  father  would  interest  himself  in  read 
ing,  visiting,  etc.,  as  he  used  to  do.  And  I  thought 
Martha's  judgment  would  be  of  service  to  you, 
while  her  household  skill  would  relieve  you  of  some 
care.  But  the  whole  thing  has  proved  a  failure. 
I  am  harassed  by  the  sight  of  my  father,  sitting 
there  in  his  corner  so  penetrated  with  gloom ;  I  re 
proach  myself  for  it,  but  I  almost  dread  coming 
home.  When  a  man  has  been  all  day  encompassed 
with  sounds  and  sights  of  suffering,  he  naturally 
longs  for  cheerful  faces  and  cheerful  voices  in  his 
own  house.  Then  Martha's  pertinacious — I  won't 
say  hostility  to  my  little  wife — what  shall  I  call  it  ?." 

"It  is  only  want  of  sympathy.  She  is  too  really 
good  to  be  hostile  to  any  one." 


230  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"  Thank  you,  my  darling/'  he  said,  "  I  believe  yon 
do  her  justice." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  not  been  as  forbearing  with 
her  as  I  ought,"  I  said.  "But,  oh  Ernest,  it  is  be 
cause  I  have  been  jealous  of  her  all  along ! " 

"That  is  really  too  absurd." 

"You  certainly  have  treated  her  with  more  def 
erence  than  you  have  me.  You  looked  up  to  her 
and  looked  down  upon  me.  At  least  it  seemed  so." 

"My  dear  child,  you  have  misunderstood  the 
whole  thing.  I  gave  Martha  just  what  she  wanted 
most;  she  likes  to  be  looked  up  to.  And  I  gave 
you  what  I  thought  you  wanted  most — my  tender- 
est  love.  And  I  expected  that  I  should  have  your 
sympathy  amid  the  trials  with  which  I  am  burden 
ed,  and  that  with  your  strong  nature  I  might  look 
to  you  to  help  me  bear  them.  I  know  you  have 
the  worst  of  it,  dear  child,  but  then  you  have  twice 
my  strength.  I  believe  women  almost  always  have 
more  than  men." 

"I  have,  indeed,  misunderstood  you.  I  thought 
you  liked  to  have  them  here,  and  that  Martha's  not 
fancying  me  influenced  you  against  me.  But  now 
I  know  just  what  you  want  of  me,  and  I  can  give 
*t,  darling." 

After  this  all  our  cloud  melted  away.  I  only  long 
to  go  home  and  show  Ernest  that  he  shall  have  one 
cheerful  face  about  him,  and  have  one  cheerful  voice, 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  231 

AUGUST  12. — I  have  had  a  long  letter  from 

Ernest  to-day.  He  says  he  hopes  he  has  not  been 
selfish  and  unkind  in  speaking  of  his  father  and  sis 
ter  as  he  has  done,  because  he  truly  loves  and  hon 
ors  them  both,  and  wants  me  to  do  so,  if  I  can. 
His  father  had  called  them  up  twice  to  see  him  die 
and  to  receive  his  last  messages.  This  always  hap 
pens  when  poor  Ernest  has  been  up  all  the  previous 
night;  there  seems  a  fatality  about  it 


XV. 


OOTOBEB   4. 

OME  again,  and  with  my  dear  Ernest  de 
lighted  to  see  me.  Baby  is  a  year  old  to 
day,  and,  as  usual,  father,  who  seems  to 
abhor  anything  like  a  merry-making,  took 
himself  off  to  his  room.  To-morrow  he  will  be  all 
the  worse  for  it,  and  will  be  sure  to  have  a  theo 
logical  battle  with  somebody. 

OCTOBER  5. — The  somebody  was  his  daugh 
ter  Katherine,  as  usual.  Baby  was  asleep  in  my 
lap  and  I  reached  out  for  a  book  which  proved  to 
be  a  volume  of  Shakespeare  which  had  done  long 
service  as  an  ornament  to  the  table,  but  which  no 
body  ever  read,  on  account  of  the  small  print.  The 
battle  then  began  thus: 

FatJier. — "I  regret  to  see  that  worldly  author  in 
your  hands,  my  daughter." 

Daughter — a  little  mischievously. — "Why,  were 
you  wanting  to  talk,  fathei  ? " 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  233 

"  No,  I  am  too  feeble  to  talk  to-day.  My  pulse  is 
tery  weak." 

"Let  me  read  aloud  to  you,  then." 

"  Not  from  that  profane  book." 

"It  would  do  you  good.  You  never  take  any 
recreation.  Do  let  me  read  a  little." 

Father  gets  nervous. 

"Recreation  is  a  snare.  I  must  keep  my  soul 
ever  fixed  on  divine  things." 

"But  can  you?" 

"Xo,  alas,  no.  It  is  my  grief  and  shame  that  I 
do  not" 

"But  if  you  would  indulge  yourself  in  a  little 
harmless  mirth  now  and  then,  your  mind  would  get 
rested  and  you  would  return  to  divine  things  with 
fresh  zeal.  Why  should  not  the  mind  have  its  sea 
sons  of  rest  as  well  as  the  body  ? " 

"We  shall  have  time  to  rest  in  heaven.  Our 
business  here  on  earth  is  to  be  sober  and  vigil 
ant  because  of  our  adversary ;  not  to  be  reading 
plays." 

"I  don't  make  reading  plays  my  business,  dear 
father.  I  make  it  my  rest  and  amusement." 

"Christians  do  not  need  amusement;  they  find 
rest,  refreshment,  all  they  want,  in  God." 

"Do  you,  father?" 

"Alas,  no.     He  seems  a  great  way  off." 

"To  me  He  seems  very  near.     So  near  that  H« 


234  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

can  see  every  thought  of  my  heart.  Dear  father, 
it  is  your  disease  that  makes  everything  so  unreal 
to  you.  God  is  really  so  near,  really  loves  us  so; 
is  so  sorry  for  us!  And  it  seems  hard,  when  you 
are  so  good,  and  so  intent  on  pleasing  Him,  that 
you  get  no  comfort  out  of  Him." 

"  I  am  not  good,  my  daughter.  I  arn  a  vile  worm 
of  the  dust." 

"Well  God  is  good,  at  any  rate,  and  He  would 
never  have  sent  His  Son  to  die  for  you  if  He  did 
not  love  you."  So  then  I  began  to  sing.  Father 
likes  to  hear  me  sing,  and  the  sweet  sense  I  had 
that  all  I  had  been  saying  was  true  and  more  than 
true,  made  me  sing  with  joyful  heart 

I  hope  it  is  not  a  mere  miserable  presumption 
that  makes  me  dare  to  talk  so  to  poor  father.  Of 
course  he  is  ten  times  better  than  I  am,  and  knows 
ten  times  as  much,  but  his  disease,  whatever  it  is, 
keeps  his  mind  befogged.  I  mean  to  begin  now  to 
pray  that  light  may  shine  into  his  soul  It  would 
be  delightful  to  see  the  peace  of  God  shining  in 
that  pale,  stern  face ! 

MARCH  28. — It  is  almost  six  months  since  I 

wrote  that.  About  the  middle  of  October  father 
had  one  of  his  ill  turns  one  night,  and  we  were  all 
called  up.  He  asked  for  me  particularly,  and  Er 
nest  came  for  me  at  last.  I  was  a  good  deal  agita- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  235 

ted,  and  would  not  stop  to  half  dress  myself,  and 
as  I  had  a  slight  cold  already,  I  suppose  I  added  to 
it  then.  At  any  rate  I  was  taken  very  sick,  and 
the  worst  cough  I  ever  had  has  racked  my  poor 
frame  almost  to  pieces.  Nearly  six  months  confine 
ment  to  my  room;  six  months  of  uselessness  dur 
ing  which  I  have  been  a  mere  cumberer  of  the 
ground.  Poor  Ernest!  What  a  hard  time  he  has 
had !  Instead  of  the  cheerful  welcome  home  I  was 
to  give  him  whenever  he  entered  the  house,  here 
I  have  lain  exhausted,  woe-begone  and  good  for 
nothing.  It  is  the  bitterest  disappointment  I  ever 
had.  My  ambition  is  to  be  the  sweetest,  brightest, 
best  of  wives;  and  what  with  my  childish  follies, 
and  my  sickness,  what  a  weary  life  my  dear  hus 
band  has  had!  But  how  often  I  have  prayed  that 
God  would  do  His  will  in  defiance,  if  need  be,  of 
mine !  I  have  tried  to  remind  myself  of  that  every 
day.  But  I  am  too  tired  to  write  any  more  now. 

MARCH    30. — This    experience    of   suffering 

has  filled  my  mind  with  new  thoughts.  At  one 
time  I  was  so  sick  that  Ernest  sent  for  mother. 
Poor  mother,  she  had  to  sleep  with  Martha.  It 
was  a  great  comfort  to  have  her  here,  but  I  knew 
by  her  coming  how  sick  I  was,  and  then  I  began  to 
ponder  the  question  whether  I  was  ready  to  die. 
Death  looked  to  me  as  a  most  solemn,  momentous 


23(>  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

event — but  there  was  something  very  pleasant  in 
the  thought  of  being  no  longer  a  sinner,  but  a  re 
deemed  saint,  and  of  dwelling  forever  in  Christ  8 
presence.  Father  came  to  see  me  when  I  had  just 
reached  this  point. 

"  My  dear  daughter,"  he  asked,  "  are  you  pre 
pared  to  face  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  ?  " 

"No,  dear  father,"  I  said,  "Christ  will  do  that 
for  me." 

"  Have  you  no  misgivings  ?  " 

I  could  only  smile ;  I  had  no  strength  to  talk. 

Then  I  heard  Ernest — my  dear,  calm,  self-con 
trolled  Ernest — burst  out  crying  and  rush  out 
of  the  room.  I  looked  after  him,  and  how  I  loved 
him !  But  I  felt  that  I  loved  my  Saviour  infinitely 
more,  and  that  if  he  now  let  me  come  home  to  be 
with  Him  I  could  trust  Him  to  be  a  thousand  fold 
more  to  Ernest  than  I  could  ever  be,  and  to  take 
care  of  my  darling  baby  and  my  precious  mother 
far  better  than  I  could.  The  very  gates  of  heaven 
seemed  open  to  let  me  in.  And  then  they  were 
suddenly  shut  in  my  face,  and  I  found  myself  a 
poor,  weak,  tempted  creature  here  upon  earth.  I, 
who  fancied  myself  an  heir  of  glory,  was  nothing 
but  a  peevish,  human  creature — very  human  indeed, 
overcome  if  Martha  shook  the  bed,  as  she  always 
did,  irritated  if  my  food  did  not  come  at  the  right 
moment^  or  was  not  of  the  right  sort,  hurt  and  of- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  237 

fended  if  Ernest  put  on  a  tone  less  anxious  and 
tender  then  he  had  used  when  I  was  very  ill,  and  in 
short  my  own  poor  faulty  self  once  more.  Oh, 
what  fearful  battles  I  fought  for  patience,  forbear- 
ance  and  unselfishness!  What  sorrowful  tears  of 
sLame  I  shed  over  hasty,  impatient  words  and  fret 
ful  tones!  No  wonder  I  longed  to  be  gone  where 
weakness  should  be  swallowed  up  in  strength,  and 
sin  give  place  to  eternal  perfection! 

But  here  I  am,  and  suffering  and  work  lie  before 
me,  for  which  I  feel  little  physical  or  mental  courage. 
But  "blessed  be  the  will  of  God." 

APRIL  5. — I  was  alone  with  father  last  even 
ing,  Ernest  and  Martha  both  being  out,  and  soon 
saw  by  the  way  he  fidgeted  in  his  chair  that  he  had 
something  on  his  mind.  So  I  laid  down  the  book  I 
was  reading,  and  asked  him  what  it  was. 

"  My  daughter,"  he  began,  "  can  you  bear  a  plain 
word  from  an  old  man?" 

I  felt  frightened,  for  I  knew  I  had  been  impatient 
to  Martha  of  late,  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts  to  the 
contrary.  I  am  still  so  miserably  unwell. 

"  I  have  seen  many  death-beds,"  he  went  on ;  "  but 
I  nover  saw  one  where  there  was  not  some  dread  of 
the  King  of  Terrors  exhibited;  nor  one  where  there 
was  such  absolute  certainty  of  having  found  favoi 
with  God,  as  to  make  the  hour  of  departure  entirely 


238  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

free  from  such  doubts  and  such  humility  as  becomes 
a  guilty  sinner  about  to  face  his  Judge." 

"1  never  saw  such  a  one  either,"  I  replied;  ubut 
there  have  been  many  such  deaths,  and  I  hardly 
know  of  any  scene  that  so  honors  and  magnifies 
the  Lord." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  slowly ;  "  but  they  were  old,  ma 
ture,  ripened  Christians." 

"Not  always  old,  dear  father.  Let  me  describe 
to  you  a  scene  Ernest  described  to  me  only  yester 
day." 

He  waved  his  hand  in  token  that  this  would  de 
lay  his  coming  to  the  point  he  was  aiming  at. 

"  To  speak  plainly,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  uneasy  about 
you,  iny  daughter.  You  are  young  and  in  the 
bloom  of  life,  but  when  death  seemed  staring  you 
in  the  face,  you  expressed  no  anxiety,  asked  for  no 
counsel,  showed  no  alarm.  It  must  be  pleasant  to 
possess  so  comfortable  a  persuasion  of  our  accept 
ance  with  God;  but  is  it  safe  to  rest  on  such  an  as 
surance,  while  we  know  that  the  human  heart  is  de 
ceitful  above  all  things  and  desperately  wicked?" 

•'I  thank  you  for  the  suggestion,"  I  said;  "aud 
dear  father,  do  not  be  afraid  to  speak  still  more 
plainly.  You  live  in  the  house  with  me,  see  all  my 
short-comings  and  my  faults,  and  I  cannot  wonder 
that  you  think  me  a  poor,  weak  Christian.  But  do 
you  really  fear  that  I  am  deceived  in  believing  thai 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  239 

not  withstanding  this  I  do  really  love  my  God  and 
Saviour  and  am  His  child?" 

"No,"  he  said,  hesitating  a  little,  "I  can't  say 
that  exactly — I  can't  say  that." 

This  hesitation  distressed  me.  At  first  it  seemed 
to  me  that  my  life  must  have  uttered  a  very  uncer 
tain  sound,  if  those  who  saw  it  could  misunderstand 
its  language.  But  then  I  reflected  that  it  was,  at 
best,  a  very  faulty  life,  and  that  its  springs  of  ac 
tion  were  not  necessarily  seen  by  lookers  on. 

Father  saw  my  distress  and  perplexity,  and  seem 
ed  touched  by  them. 

Just  then  Ernest  came  in  with  Martha,  but  seeing 
that  something  was  amiss,  the  latter  took  herself 
off  to  her  room,  which  I  thought  really  kind  of 
her. 

"What  is  it,  father?  What  is  it,  Katy?"  asked 
Ernest,  looking  from  one  troubled  face  to  the 
other. 

I  tried  to  explain. 

"I  think,  father,  you  may  safely  trust  my  wife's 
spiritual  interests  to  me,"  Ernest  said,  with  some 
warmth.  "You  do  not  understand  her.  I  do. 
Because  there  is  nothing  morbid  about  her,  because 
she  has  a  sweet,  cheerful  confidence  in  Christ  you 
doubt  and  misjudge  her.  You  may  depend  upon  it 
that  people  are  individual  in  their  piety  as  in  other 
things,  and  cannot  all  be  run  in  one  mould. 


240  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

has  a  playful  way  of  speaking,  I  know,  and  often 
expresses  her  strongest  feelings  with  what  seema 
like  levity,  and  is,  perhaps,  a  little  reckless  about 
being  misunderstood  in  consequence." 

lie  smiled  on  me,  as  he  thus  took  up  the  cudgels 
iii  my  defence,  and  I  never  felt  so  grateful  to  him  in 
my  life.  The  truth  is,  I  hate  sentimentalism  so  cor 
dially,  and  have  besides  such  an  instinct  to  conceal 
my  deepest,  most  sacred  emotions,  that  I  do  not 
wonder  people  misunderstand  and  misjudge  me. 

"I  did  not  refer  to  her  playfulness,"  father  re 
turned.  "  Old  people  must  make  allowances  for  the 
young;  they  must  make  allowances.  What  pains 
me  is,  that  this  child,  full  of  life  and  gaiety  as  she 
is,  sees  death  approach  without  that  becoming  awe 
and  terror  which  befits  mortal  man." 

Ernest  was  going  to  reply,  but  I  broke  in  eagerly 
upon  his  answer. 

"It  is  true  that  I  expressed  no  anxiety  when  I 
believed  death  to  be  at  hand.  I  felt  none.  I  had 
given  myself  away  to  Christ,  and  He  had  received 
me,  and  why  should  I  be  afraid  to  take  His  hand 
and  go  where  He  led  me?  And  it  is  true  that  1 
asked  for  no  counsel.  I  was  too  weak  to  ask  ques 
tions  or  to  like  to  have  questions  asked;  but  ray 
mind  was  bright  and  wide  awake,  while  my  body 
was  so  feeble,  and  I  took  counsel  of  God.  Oh,  let 
me  read  to  you  two  passages  from  the  life  of  Oaiv* 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  241 

line  Fry  which  will  make  you  understand  how  a 
poor  sinner  looks  upon  death.  The  first  is  an  ex 
tract  from  a  letter  written  after  learning  that  her 
days  on  earth  were  numbered. 

"•'  As  mary  will  hear  an 5  will  not  understand,  why 
I  want  no  time  of  preparation,  often  desired  by  fat 
holier  ones  than  I,  I  tell  you  why,  and  shall  tell 
others,  and  so  shall  you.  It  is  not  because  I  am  so 
holy,  but  because  I  am  so  sinful.  The  peculiar 
character  of  my  religious  experience  has  always 
been  a  deep,  an  agonizing  sense  of  sin;  the  sin  of 
yesterday,  of  to-day,  confessed  with  anguish  hard 
to  be  endured,  and  cried  for  pardon  that  could  not 
be  unheard;  each  day  cleansed  anew  in  Jesus' 
blood,  and  each  day  more  and  more  hateful  in  my 
own  sight;  what  can  I  do  in  death  I  have  not  done 
in  life?  What  do  in  this  week,  when  I  am  told  I 
cannot  live,  other  than  I  did  last  week,  when  I 
knew  it  not?  Alas,  there  is  but  one  thing  undone- 
to  serve  Him  better;  and  the  death  bed  is  no  placo 
for  that.  Therefore  I  say,  if  I  am  not  ready  now,  I 
shall  not  be  by  delay,  so  far  as  I  have  to  do  with  it 
If  He  has  more  to  do  in  me  that  is  His  part.  I  need 
not  ask  Him  not  to  spoil  His  work  by  too  much 
haste.' 

"  And  these  are  hei  dying  words,  a  few  days  later 
"'This  is  my  bridal-day,  the  beginning  of  my  life. 
I  wish  there  should  be  no  mistake  about  the  reason 
11 


242  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

of  my  desire  to  depart  and  to  be  with  Christ  1 
confess  myself  the  vilest,  chiefest  of  sinners,  and  I 
desire  to  go  to  Him  that  I  may  be  rid  of  the  burden 
of  sin — the  sin  of  my  nature — not  the  past,  repented 
of  every  day,  but  the  present,  hourly,  momentary 
sin,  which  I  do  commit,  or  may  commit — the  sense 
of  which  at  times  drives  me  half  mad  with  grief!''' 

I  shall  never  forget  the  expression  of  father's  face, 
as  I  finished  reading  these  remarkable  words.  He 
rose  slowly  from  his  -seat,  and  came  and  kissed  me 
on  the  forehead.  Then  he  left  the  room,  but  re 
turned  with  a  large  volume,  and  pointing  to  a  blank 
page,  requested  me  to  copy  them  there.  He  com 
plains  that  I  do  not  write  legibly,  so  I  printed  them 
as  painly  as  I  could,  with  my  pen. 

JUNE  20. — On  the  first  of  May,  there  came 

to  us,  with  other  spring  flowers,  our  little  fair- 
haired,  blue-eyed  daughter.  How  rich  I  felt  when 
I  heard  Ernest's  voice,  as  he  replied  to  a  question 
asked  at  th^  door,  proclaim,  "Mother  and  children 
all  well."  To  think  that  we,  who  thought  ourselves 
rich  before,  are  made  so  much  richer  now ! 

But  she  is  not  large  and  vigorous,  as  little  Ernest 
was,  and  we  cannot  rejoice  in  her  without  some 
misgiving.  Yet  her  very  frailty  makes  her  precious 
to  us.  Little  Ernest  hangs  over  her  with  an  almost 
lovTer-like  pride  and  demotion,  and  should  she  live 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  243 

I  can  imagine  what  a  protector  be  will  be  for  her 
I  have  had  to  give  up  the  care  of  him  to  Martha. 
During  my  illness  I  do  not  know  what  would  have 
become  of  him  but  for  her.  One  of  the  pleasant 
events  of  every  day  at  that  time,  was  her  bringing 
him  to  me  in  such  exquisite  order,  his  face  shining 
with  health  and  happiness,  his  hair  and  dress  so 
beautifully  neat  and  clean.  Now  that  she  has  the 
care  of  him,  she  has  become  very  fond  of  him,  and 
he  certainly  forms  one  bond  of  union  between  us, 
for  we  both  agree  that  he  is  the  handsomest,  best, 
most  remarkable  child  that  ever  lived,  or  ever  will 
live. 

JULY  6. — I  have  come  home  to  dear  mother 

with  both  my  children.     Ernest  says  our  only  hope 
for  baby  is  to  keep  her  out  of  the  city  during  the 
summer  months. 

What  a  petite  wee  maiden  she  is?  Where  does 
all  the  love  come  from?  If  I  had  had  her  always 
I  do  not  see  how  I  could  be  more  fond  of  her.  And 
do  people  call  it  living  who  never  had  any  children  ? 

JULY  10. — If  this  darling  baby  lives,  I  shall 

always  believe  it  is  owing  to  my  mother's  prayers. 

I  find  little  Ernest  has  a  passionate  temper,  and  a 
good  deal  of  self-will.  But  he  has  fine  qualities.  1 
wish  he  had  a  better  mother  I  am  so  impatient 


244  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

witl  him  when  he  is  wayward  and  perverse !  What 
he  needs  is  a  firm,  gentle  hand,  moved  by  no  ca 
price,  and  controlled  by  the  constant  fear  of  God. 
He  never  ought  to  hear  an  irritable  word,  or  a 
sharp  tone;  but  he  does  hear  them,  I  must  own 
with  grief  and  shame.  The  truth  is,  it  is  so  long 
since  I  really  felt  strong  and  well  that  I  am  not  my 
self,  and  cannot  do  him  justice,  poor  child.  Next 
to  being  a  perfect  wife  I  want  to  be  a  perfect  mo 
ther.  How  mortifying,  how  dreadful  in  all  things 
to  come  short  of  even  one's  own  standard!  What 
approach,  then,  does  one  make  to  God's  standard? 
Mother  seems  very  happy  to  have  us  here,  though 
we  make  so  much  trouble.  She  encourages  me  in 
all  my  attempts  to  control  myself  and  to  control 
my  dear  little  boy,  and  the  chapters  she  gives  me 
out  of  her  own  experience  are  as  interesting  as  a 
novel,  and  a  good  deal  more  instructive. 

AUGUST.  —  Dear  Ernest  has  come  to  spend 

a  week  with  us.  He  is  all  tired  out,  as  there  has 
been  a  great  deal  of  sickness  in  the  city,  and  father 
has  had  quite  a  serious  attack.  He  brought  with 
him  a  nurse  for  baby,  as  one  more  desperate  effort 
to  strengthen  her  constitution. 

I  reproached  him  for  doing  it  without  consulting 
me,  but  he  said  mother  had  written  to  tell  him  that 
I  was  all  worn  out  and  not  in  a  state  to  have  the 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  245 

care  of  the  children.  It  has  been  a  terrible  blow  to 
me.  One  by  one  I  am  giving  up  the  sweetest  ma 
ternal  duties.  God  means  that  I  shall  be  nothing 
and  dc  nothing;  a  mere  useless  sufferer.  But  when 
I  tell  Ernest  so,  he  says  I  am  everything  to  him, 
and  that  God's  children  please  Him  just  as  well 
when  they  sit  patiently  with  folded  hands,  if  that  is 
His  will,  as  when  they  are  hard  at  work.  But  to 
be  at  work,  to  be  useful,  to  be  iwcessary  to  my  hus 
band  and  children,  is  just  what  I  want,  and  I  do 
find  it  hard  to  be  set  against  the  wall  as  it  were, 
like  an  old  piece  of  furniture  no  longer  of  any  ser 
vice.  I  see  now  that  my  first  desire  has  not  been 
to  please  God,  but  to  please  myself,  for  I  am  rest 
less  under  His  restraining  hand,  and  find  my  prison 
a  very  narrow  one.  I  would  be  willing  to  bear  any 
other  trial,  if  I  could  only  have  health  and  strength 
for  my  beloved  ones.  I  pray  for  patience  with  bit 
ter  tears. 


XVI. 


OCTOBER. 

E  are  all  at  home  together  once  more. 
The  parting  with  mother  was  very  pain 
ful.  Every  year  that  she  lives  now 
increases  her  loneliness,  and  makes  me 
long  to  give  her  the  shelter  of  my  home.  But  in 
the  midst  of  these  anxieties,  how  much  I  have  to 
make  me  happy !  Little  Ernest  is  the  life  and  soul 
of  the  house ;  the  sound  of  his  feet  pattering  about, 
and  all  his  prattle,  are  the  sweetest  music  to  my 
ear;  and  his  heart  is  brim  full  of  love  and  joy,  so 
that  he  shines  on  us  all  like  a  sunbeam.  Baby  ia 
improving  every  day,  and  is  one  of  those  tender, 
clinging  little  things  that  appeal  to  eveiybody's 
love  and  sympathy.  I  never  saw  a  more  angelic 
face  than  hers.  Father  sits  by  the  hour  looking  at 
her.  To-day  he  said: 

"  Daughter  Katherine,  this  lovely  little  one  is  not 
meant  for'  this  sinful  world." 

"This  world  needs  to  be  adorned  with  lovely  lit 
(246) 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  247 

tie  ones,"  I  said.  "  And  baby  was  never  so  well  ae 
she  is  now." 

"Do  not  set  your  heart  too  fondly  upon  her,"  he 
returned.  "  I  feel  that  she  is  far  too  dear  to 
me." 

"But,  father,  we  could  give  her  to  God,  if  He 
should  ask  for  her.  Surely,  we  love  Him  better 
than  we  love  her." 

But  as  I  spoke  a  sharp  pang  shot  through  and 
through  my  soul,  and  I  held  my  little  fair  daughter 
closely  in  my  arms,  as  if  I  could  always  keep  her 
there.  It  may  be  my  conceit,  but  it  really  does 
seem  as  if  poor  father  was  getting  a  little  fond  of 
me.  Ever  since  my  own  sickness  I  have  felt  great 
sympathy  for  him,  and  he  feels,  no  doubt,  that  I 
give  him  something  that  neither  Ernest  nor  Martha 
can  do,  since  they  were  never  sick  one  day  in  their 
lives.  I  do  wish  he  could  look  more  at  Christ  and 
at  what  He  has  done  and  is  doing  for  us.  The  way 
of  salvation  is  to  me  a  wide  path,  absolutely  radi 
ant  with  the  glory  of  Him  who  shines  upon  it;  I 
«ee  my  short-comings;  I  see  my  sins,  but  I  feel  my 
self  bathed,  as  it  were,  in  the  effulgent  glow  that 
proceeds  directly  from  the  throne  of  God  and  the 
Lamb.  It  seems  as  if  I  ought  to  have  some  mis 
givings  about  my  salvation,  but  I  can  hardly  say 
that  1  have  one.  How  strange,  how  mysterious 
that  is!  And  here  is  father,  so  much  older,  sn 


248  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

much  better  than  I  am,  creeping  along  in  the  dark ! 
I  spoke  to  Ernest  about  it  He  says  I  owe  it  to  my 
training,  in  a  groat  measure,  and  that  my  mother  is 
fifty  years  in  advance  of  her  age.  But  it  can't  be 
all  that.  It  was  only  after  years  of  struggle  and 
prayer  that  God  gave  me  this  joy. 

NOVEMBER  24. — Ernest  asked   me  yesterday 

if  I  knew  that  Amelia  and  her  husband  had  come 
here  to  live,  and  that  she  was  very  ill. 

"I  wish  you  would  go  to  see  her,  dear,"  he 
added.  "She  is  a  stranger  here,  and  in  great  need 
of  a  friend."  I  felt  extremely  disturbed.  I  have 
lost  my  old  affection  for  her,  and  the  idea  of  meek 
ing  her  husband  was  unpleasant. 

u  Is  she  very  sick  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Yes.  She  is  completely  broken  down.  I  prom • 
ieed  her  that  you  should  go  to  see  her." 

"Are  you  attending  her?" 

"Yes,  her  husband  came  for  me  himself." 

"I  don't  want  to  go,"  I  said.  "It  will  be  very 
disagreeable." 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know  it.  But  she  needs  a  friend, 
as  I  said  before." 

I  put  on  my  things  very  reluctantly,  and  went 
I  found  Amelia  in  a  richly-furnished  house,  but 
looking  untidy  and  ill-cared  for.  She  was  lying  on 
a  couch  in  her  bed-room  ;  three  delicate  looking 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  249 

children   were   playing  about,  and  their  nurse   sat 
sewing  at  the  window. 

A  terrible  fit  of  coughing  made  it  impossible  for 
her  to  speak  for  some  moments.  At  last  she  recov 
ered  herself  sufficiently  to  welcome  me,  by  throw 
ing  her  arms  around  me  and  bursting  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  Katy !  "  she  cried,  "  should  you  have  known 
me  if  we  had  met  in  the  street?  Don't  you  find 
me  sadly  altered  ?  " 

"  You  are  changed,"  I  said,  "  but  so  am  I." 

"  Yes,  you  do  not  look  strong.  But  then  you 
never  did.  And  you  are  as  pretty  as  ever,  while  I 
— oh,  Kate !  do  you  remember  what  round  white 
arms  I  used  to  have  ?  Look  at  them  now  ! " 

And  she  drew  up  her  sleeve,  poor  child.  Just 
then  I  heard  a  step  in  the  passage,  and  her  husband 
sauntered  into  the  room,  smoking. 

uDo  go  away,  Charles,"  she  said  impatiently. 
"  You  know  how  your  cigar  sets  me  coughing." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  me  with  the  easy,  non 
chalant  air  of  one  who  is  accustomed  to  success 
and  popularity. 

I  looked  at  him  with  an  aversion  I  could  not  con 
ceal.  The  few  years  since  we  met  has  changed 
him  so  completely  that  I  almost  shuddered  at  the 
eight  of  his  already  bloated  face,  and  at  the  air  thai 
told  of  a  life  worse  than  wasted. 

"  Do  go  away,  Charles,"  Amelia  repeated. 
11* 


250  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair  without  paying 
the  least  attention  to  her,  and  still  addressing  him 
self  to  me  again,  said 

"Upon  my  word,  you  are  prettier  than  ever, 
and—" 

"  I  will  come  to  see  you  at  another  time,  Amelia," 
I  said,  putting  on  all  the  dignity  I  could  condense 
in  my  small  frame,  and  rising  to  take  leave. 

"  Don't  go,  Katy ! "  he  cried,  starting  up,  "  don't 
go  I  want  to  have  a  good  talk  about  old  times." 

Katy,  indeed!  How  dared  he?  I  came  away 
burning  with  anger  and  mortification.  Is  it  possi 
ble  that  I  ever  loved  such  a  man?  That  to  gratify 
that  love  I  defied  and  grieved  my  dear  mother 
through  a  whole  year!  Oh,  from  what  hopeless 
misery  God  saved  me,  when  he  snatched  me  out  of 
the  depth  of  my  folly  ! 

DECEMBER  1. — Ernest  says  I   can   go  to   see 

Amelia  with  safety  now,  as  her  husband  has  sprained 
his  ankle,  and  keeps  to  his  own  room.     So  I  am  go 
ing.     But  I  am  sure  I  shall  say  something  impru 
dent  or  unwise,  and  wish  I  could  think  it  right  to 
stay  away.     I  hope  God  will  go  with  me  and  teach 
me  what  words  to  speak. 

DEC.  2. — I  found  Amelia  more  unwell  than 

on  my  first  visit,  and  she  received  me  again  with  tears 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  251 

•*  How  good  you  are  to  come  so  soon,"  she  began. 
"I  did  not  blame  you  for  running  off  the  other  day; 
Charley's  impertinence  was  shameful.  He  said,  af 
ter  you  left,  that  he  perceived  you  had  not  yet  lost 
your  quickness  to  take  offence,  but  I  know  he  felt 
that  you  showed  a  just  displeasure,  and  nothirg 
more." 

"  No,  I  was  really  angry,"  I  replied.  "  I  find  the 
road  to  perfection  lies  up-hill,  and  I  slip  back  so  of 
ten  that  sometimes  I  despair  of  ever  reaching  the 
top." 

"  What  does  the  doctor  say  about  me  ?  "  she  asked. 
'Does  he  think  me  very  sick?" 

"I  dare  say  he  will  tell  you  exactly  what  he 
thinks,"  I  returned,  "if  you  ask  him.  This  is  his 
rule  with  all  his  patients." 

"If  I  could  get  rid  of  this  cough  I  should  soon 
be  myself  again,"  she  said.  "Some  days  I  feel 
quite  bright  and  well.  But  if  it  were  not  for  my 
poor  little  children,  I  should  not  care  much  how  the 
thing  ended.  With  the  life  Charley  leads  me/  I 
haven't  much  to  look  forward  to." 

"You  forget  that  the'  children's  nurse  is  in  the 
room,"  I  whispered. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  Charlotte.  Charlotte  knowa 
how  he  neglects  me,  don't  you,  Charlotte?" 

Charlotte  was  discreet  enough  to  pretend  not  to 
hear  this  question,  and  Amelia  went  on: 


252  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"It  bogan  very  soon  after  we  were  married.  He 
would  go  round  with  other  girls  exactly  as  he  did 
before;  then  when  I  spoke  about  it  he  would  just 
laugh  in  his  easy,  good-natured  way,  but  pay  no  at 
tention  to  my  wishes.  Then  when  I  grew  more  in 
earnest  he  >vould  say,  that  as  long  as  he  let  me  alone 
I  ought  to  let  him  alone.  I  thought  that  when  oui 
first  baby  came  that  would  sober  him  a  little,  but 
he  wanted  a  boy  and  it  turned  out  to  be  a  girl. 
And  my  being  unhappy  and  crying  so  much,  made 
the  poor  thing  fretful ;  it  kept  him  awake  at  night, 
BO  he  took  another  room.  After  that  I  saw  him  less 
than  ever,  though  now  and  then  he  would  have  a 
little  love-fit,  when  he  would  promise  to  be  at  home 
more  and  treat  me  with  more  consideration.  We 
had  two  more  little  girls — twins;  and  then  a  boy. 
Charley  seemed  quite  fond  of  him,  and  did  certainly 
seem  improved,  though  he  was  still  out  a  great  deal 
with  a  set  of  idle  young  men,  smoking,  drinking 
wine,  and  I  don't  know  what  else.  His  uncle  gave 
him  too  much  money,  and  he  had  nothing  to  do  but 
to  spend  it."  I 

"You  must  not  tell  me  any  more  now,"  I  said. 
u  Wait  till  you  are  stronger." 

The  nurse  rose  and  gave  her  something  which 
seemed  to  refresh  her.  I  went  to  look  at  the  little 
girls,  who  were  all  pretty,  pale-faced  creatures, 
very  quiet  and  mature  in  their  ways. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  253 

"I  am  rested  now,"  said  Amelia,  "and  it  does  me 
good  to  talk  to  you,  because  I  can  see  that  you  are 
sorry  for  me." 

"  I  am,  indeed ! "  I  cried. 

"When  our  little  boy  was  three  months  old  I 
took  this  terrible  cold  and  began  to  cough.  Char 
ley  at  first  remonstrated  with  me  for  coughing  so 
much;  he  said  it  was  a  habit  I  had  got,  and  that  I 
ought  to  cure  myself  of  it.  Then  the  baby  began 
to  pine  and  pine,  and  the  more  it  wasted  the  more 
1  wasted.  And  at  last  it  died. 

Here  the  poor  child  burst  out  again,  and  I  wiped 
away  her  tears  as  fast  as  they  fell,  thankful  that  she 
could  cry. 

"After  that,"  she  went  on,  after  a  while,  "Char 
ley  seemed  to  lose  his  last  particle  of  affection  for 
me;  he  kept  away  more  than  ever,  and  once  when 
I  besought  him  not  to  neglect  me  and  my  children 
so,  he  said  he  was  well  paid  for  not  keeping  up  his 
engagement  with  you,  that  you  had  some  strength 
of  character,  and — " 

"Amelia,"  I  interrupted,  "do  not  repeat  such 
things.  They  only  pain  and  mortify  me." 

"  Well,"  she  sighed,  wearily,  "  this  is  what  he  has 
at  last  brought  me  to.  I  am  sick  and  broken-heart 
ed,  and  care  very  little  what  becomes  of  me." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  I  wanted  to  ask  her 
i£  whon  earthly  refuge  failed  her,  she  could  not  find 


254  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

shelter  in  the  love  of  Christ.  But  I  have,  what  is 
I  fear,  a  morbid  terror  of  seeking  the  confidence  oi 
others.  I  knelt  down  at  last,  and  kissed  the  poor 
faded  face. 

"Yes,  I  knew  you  would  feel  for  me,"  she  said. 
"  The  only  pleasant  thought  I  had  when  Charley  in 
sisted  on  coming  here  to  live  was,  that  I  should  see 
you." 

"Does  your  uncle  live  here,  too?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  he  came  first,  and  it  was  that  that  put  it 
into  Charley's  head  to  come.  He  is  very  kind  to 
me." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "and  God  is  kind,  too,  isn't  He?" 

"Kind  to  let  me  get  sick  and  disgust  Charley? 
Now,  Katy,  how  can  you  talk  so?"  I  replied  by 
repeating  two  lines  from  a  hymn  of  which  I  am  very 
fond: 

11  '0  Saviour,  whose  mercy,  severe  in  its  kindness, 

Hath  chastened  my  wanderings,  and  guided  my  way."* 

"  I  don't  much  care  for  hymns,"  she  said.  "  When 
one  is  well,  and  everything  goes  quite  to  one's  mind, 
it  is  nice  to  go  to  church  and  sing  with  the  rest  of 
them.  But,  sick  as  I  am,  it  isn't  so  easy  to  be  reli 
gious." 

"  But  isn't  this  the  very  time  to  look  to  Christ  for 
comfort  ?  " 

"What's  the  use  of  looking  anywhere  for  com 
fort?"  she  said,  peevishly.  "Wait  till  you  are  sick 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  25-6 

and  heart-broken  yourself,  and  you'll  see  that  you 
won't  feel  much  like  doing  anything  but  just  groau 
and  cry  your  life  out." 

"I  have  been  sick,  and  I  know  what  so: row 
means,"  I  said.  "  And  I  am  glad  that  I  do.  For  1 
have  learned  Christ  in  that  school,  and  I  know  that 
He  can  comfort  when  no  one  else  can." 

"You  always  were  an  odd  creature,"  she  replied. 
"  I  never  pretended  to  understand  half  you  said." 

I  saw  that  she  was  tired,  and  came  away.  Oh, 
how  I  wished  that  I  had  been  able  to  make  Christ 
look  to  her  as  He  did  to  me  all  the  way  homel 

DEO.  24. — Father  says  he  does  not  like  Dr. 

Cabot's  preaching.  He  thinks  that  it  is  not  doc 
trinal  enough,  and  that  he  does  not  preach  enough 
to  sinners.  But  I  can  see  that  it  has  influenced  him 
already,  and  that  he  is  beginning  to  think  of  God, 
as  manifested  in  Christ,  far  more  than  he  used  to  do. 
With  me  he  has  endless  discussions  on  his  and  my 
favorite  subjects,  and  though  I  can  never  tell  along 
what  path  I  walked  to  reach  a  certain  conclusion, 
the  earnestness  of  my  convictions  does  impress  him 
strangely.  I  am  sure  there  is  a  great  deal  cf  con- 
ceit  mixed  up  with  all  I  say,  and  then  when  I  com 
pare  my  life  with  my  own  standard  of  duty,  1  won 
der  I  ever  dare  to  open  my  mouth  and  undertake 
to  help  others. 


STEPPING 


Baby  is  net  at  all  well.  To  see  such  a  little 
tender  thing  really  suffering,  tears  my  soul  to  pieces. 
I  think  it  would  distress  me  less  to  give  her  to  God 
just  as  she  is  now,  a  vital  part  of  my  very  heart, 
than  to  see  her  live  a  mere  invalid  life.  But  I  try 
to  feel,  as  I  know  I  say,  Thy  will  be  done  !  Little 
Ernest  is  the  very  picture  of  health  and  beauty.  He 
has  vitality  enough  for  two  children.  He  and  his 
little  sister  will  make  very  interesting  contrasts,  as 
they  grow  older.  His  ardor  and  vivacity  will  rouse 
her,  and  her  gentleness  will  soften  him. 

-  JAN.  1,  1841.  —  Every  day  brings  its  own 
duty  and  its  own  discipline.  How  is  it  that  I  make 
such  slow  progress  while  this  is  the  case?  It  is  a 
marvel  to  me  why  God  allows  characters  like  mine 
to  defile  His  Church.  I  can  only  account  for  it 
with  the  thought  that  if  I  ever  am  perfected,  I  shall 
be  a  great  honor  to  His  name,  for  surely  worse  ma 
terial  for  building  up  a  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
was  never  gathered  together  before.  The  Jme 
may  come  when  those  who  know  me  now,  crude, 
childish,  incomplete,  will  look  upon  me  with  amaze 
ment,  saying,  "What  hath  God  wrought!"  If  I 
knew  such  a  time  would  never  come,  I  should  want 
to  flee  into  the  holes  and  caves  of  the  earth, 

I  have  everything  to  inspire  me  to  devotion.     My 
dear  mother's  influence  is  always  upon  me.     To  her 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  257 

I  owe  the  habit  of  flying  to  God  in  every  emer 
gency,  and  of  believing  in  prayer.  Then  I  am  in 
close  fellowship  with  a  true  man  and  a  true  Chris 
tian.  Ernest  has  none  of  my  fluctuations;  he  is  al 
ways  calm  and  self-possessed.  This  is  partly  his  na 
tural  character;  but  he  has  studied  the  Bible  more 
than  any  other  book,  his  convictions  of  duty  are 
fixed  because  they  are  drawn  thence,  and  his  con 
stant  contact  with  the  sick  and  the  suffering  has 
revealed  life  to  him  just  as  it  is.  How  he  has  helped 
me  on!  God  bless  him  for  it! 

Then  I  have  James.  To  be  with  him  one  half 
hour  is  an  inspiration.  He  lives  in  such  blessed 
communion  with  Christ  that  he  is  in  perpetual  sun 
shine,  and  his  happiness  fertilizes  even  this  disor 
dered  household;  there  is  not  a  soul  in  it  that  does 
not  catch  somewhat  of  his  joyousness. 

And  there  are  my  children!  My  darling,  prec 
ious  children !  For  their  sakes  I  am  continually 
constrained  to  seek  after  an  amended,  a  sanctified 
life;  what  I  want  them  to  become  I  must  become 
myself. 

So  I  enter  on  a  new  year,  not  knowing  what  it 
will  bring  forth,  but  surely  with  a  thousand  reasons 
for  thanksgiving,  for  joy,  and  for  hope. 

JAN.    16.  —  One    more    desperate    effort    to 

make   harmony   out  of  the   discords   of  m.y   house, 


258  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

and  one  more  failure.  Ernest  forgot  that  it 
our  wedding-day,  which  mortified  and  pained  me, 
especially  as  he  had  made  an  engagement  to  dine 
out.  I  am  always  expecting  something  from  life 
that  I  never  get.  Is  it  so  with  everybody?  I  am 
very  uneasy,  too,  about  James.  He  seems  to  be 
growing  fond  of  Lucy's  society.  I  am  perfectly 
eure  that  she  could  not  make  him  happy.  Is  it  pos- 
eible  that  he  does  not  know  what  a  brilliant  young 
man  he  is,  and  that  he  can  have  whom  he  pleases  ? 
It  is  easy,  in  theory,  to  let  God  plan  our  own  des 
tiny,  and  that  of  our  friends.  But  when  it  corneu  to  a 
specific  case,  we  fancy  we  can  help  His  judgments 
with  our  poor  reason.  Well,  I  must  go  to  Him  with 
this  new  anxiety,  and  trust  my  darling  brother's 
future  to  Him,  if  I  can. 

I  shall  try  to  win  James'  confidence.  If  it  is  not 
Lucy,  who  or  what  is  it  that  is  making  him  so 
thoughtful  and  serious,  yet  so  wondrously  happy. 

-  JAN.  17.  —  I  have  been  trying  to  find  out 
whether  this  is  a  mere  notion  of  mine  about  Lu.sy. 
James  laughs,  and  evades  my  questions.  But  he 
owns  that  a  very  serious  matter  is  occupying  his 
thoughts,  of  which  he  does  not  wish  to  speak  at 
present  May  God  bless  him  in  it,  whatever  it  is! 


MAT  1.  —  My  delicate  little  Una's  first 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  259 

day.  Thank  God  for  sparing  her  to  us  a  year.  If 
Ele  should  take  her  away  I  should  still  rejoice  that 
tliis  life  was  mkigled  with  ours,  and  has  influenced 
thorn.  Yes,  even  an  unconscious  infant  is  an  ever 
felt  influence  in  the  household:  what  an  amazing 
thought ! 

I  have  given  this  precious  little  one  away  to  her 
Saviour  and  to  mine ;  living  or  dying,  she  is  His. 

DEO.  13. — Writing  journals  does  not  seem 

to  be  my  mission  on  earth  of  late.  My  busy  hands 
find  so  much  else  to  do!  And  sometimes  when  I 
have  been  particularly  exasperated  and  tried  by  the 
jarring  elements  that  form  my  home,  I  have  not 
dared  to  indulge  myself  with  recording  things  that 
ought  to  be  forgotten. 

How  I  long  to  live  in  peace  with  all  men,  and 
how  I  resent  interference  in  the  management  of  my 
children!  If  the  time  ever  comes,  that  I  live,  a 
spinster  of  a  certain  age,  in  the  family  of  an  elder 
brother  what  a  model  of  forbearance,  charity  and 
Bister ly  loving-kindness  1  shall  be ! 


XVII. 


1,    1842. 

MEAN  to  resume  my  Journal,  and  be 
more  faithful  to  it  this  year.  How  many 
precious  things,  said  by  dear  Mrs.  Camp 
bell  and  others,  are  lost  forever,  because 
I  did  not  record  them  at  the  time! 

I  have  seen  her  to-day.  At  Ernest's  suggestion 
I  have  let  Susan  Green  provide  her  with  a  com 
fortable  chair,  which  enables  her  to  sit  up  during 
a  part  of  each  day.  I  found  her  in  it,  full  of  grati 
tude,  her  sweet,  tranquil  face  shining,  as  it  always 
is,  with  a  light  reflected  from  heaven  itself.  She 
looks  like  one  who  has  had  her  struggle  with  life 
and  conquered  it.  During  last  year,  I  visited  her 
often,  and  gradually  learned  much  of  her  past  his 
tory,  though  she  does  not  love  to  talk  of  herself. 
She  has  out-lived  her  husband,  a  house-full  of  girls 
and  boys,  and  her  ill-health  is  chiefly  the  result  of 
years  of  watching  by  their  sicks  beds,  and  grief  at 
their  loss. 

For  she  does  not  pretend  not  to  grieve,  but  al- 
(260) 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  261 

$vrays  says,  "It  is  repining  that  dishonors  God,  not 
grief." 

I  said  to  her  to-day: 

"Doesn't  it  seein  hard  when  you  think  of  the 
many  happy  homes  there  are  in  the  world,  that  you 
should  be  singled  out  for  such  bereavement  and 
loneliness  ?  " 

She  replied,  with  a  smile: 

'•I  am  not  singled  out,  dear.  There  are  thou 
sands  of  God's  own  dear  children,  scattered  over 
the  world,  suffering  far  more  than  I  do.  And  I  do 
not  think  there  are  many  persons  in  it  who  are  hap 
pier  than  I  am.  I  was  bound  to  my  God  and 
Saviour  before  I  knew  a  sorrow,  it  is  true.  But  it 
was  by  a  chain  of  many  links;  and  every  link  that 
dropped  away,  brought  me  to  Him,  till  at  last,  hav 
ing  nothing  left,  I  was  shut  up  to  Him,  and  learned 
fully,  what  I  had  only  learned  partially,  how  soul- 
satisfying  He  is." 

"You  think  then,"  I  said,  while  my  heart  died 
within  me,  "that  husband  and  children  are  obsta 
cles  in  our  way,  and  hinder  our  getting  near  to 
Christ." 

"  Oh,  no ! "  she  cried.  "  God  never  gives  us  hind 
rances.  On  the  contrary,  He  means,  in  making  us 
wives  and  mothers,  to  put  us  into  the  very  condi 
tions  of  holy  living.  But  if  we  abuse  His  gifts  by 
letting  them  take  His  place  in  our  hearts,  it  is  an 


262  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

act  of  love  on  His  part  to  take  them  away,  or  to 
destroy  our  pleasure  in  them.  It  is  delightful," 
she  added,  after  a  pause,  "to  know  that  there  are 
some  generous  souls  on  earth,  who  love  their  dear 
ones  with  all  their  hearts,  yet  give  those  hearts  un 
reservedly  to  Christ.  Mine  was  not  one  of  them." 

I  had  some  little  service  to  render  her  which 
interrupted  our  conversation.  The  offices  I  have 
had  to  have  rendered  me  in  my  own  long  days  of 
sickness  have  taught  me  to  be  less  fastidious  about 
waiting  upon  others.  I  am  thankful  that  God  has 
at  last  made  me  willing  to  do  anything  in  a  sick 
room  that  must  be  done.  She  thanked  me,  as  she 
always  does,  and  then  I  said: 

"  I  have  a  great  many  little  trials,  but  they  don't 
do  me  a  bit  of  good.  Or,  at  least,  I  don't  see 
that  they  do." 

"No,  we  never  see  plants  growing,"  she  said. 

"And  do  you  really  think  then,  that  perhaps  1 
am  growing,  though  unconsciously?" 

"I  know  you  are,  dear  child.  There  can't  be  life 
without  growth.  " 

This  comforted  me.  I  came  \ome,  praying  all 
the  way,  and  striving  to  commit  cnyself  entirely  to 
Him  in  whose  school  I  sit  as  learner.  Oh,  that  I 
were  a  better  scholar !  But  I  do  not  half  learn  my 
lessons,  I  am  heedless  and  inattentive,  and  I  forget 
what  is  taught  Perhaps  thia  is  the  reason  that 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  263 


weighty  truths  float  before  my  mind's  eye  at 
but  do  not  fix  themselves  there. 


-  MARCH  20.  —  I  have  been  much  impressed 
by  Dr.  Cabot's  sermons  to-day.  While  I  am  listen 
ing  to  his  voice  and  hear  him  speak  of  the  beauty 
and  desirableness  of  the  Christian  life,  I  feel  as  ne 
feels,  that  I  am  willing  to  count  all  things  but  dross 
that  I  may  win  Christ.  But  when  I  come  home 
to  my  worldly  cares,  I  get  completely  absorbed  in 
them,  and  it  is  only  by  a  painful  wrench  that  I  force 
my  soul  back  to  God.  Sometimes  I  almost  envy 
Lucy  her  calm  nature,  which  gives  her  so  little 
trouble.  Why  need  I  throw  my  whole  soul  into 
whatever  I  do  ?  Why  can't  I  make  so  much  as  an 
apron  for  little  Ernest  without  the  ardor  and  eager 
ness  of  a  soldier  marching  to  battle?  I  wonder  if 
people  of  my  temperament  ever  get  toned  down, 
and  learn  to  take  life  coolly? 


-  JUNE  10.  —  My  dear  little  Una  has  had  a 
long  and  very  severe  illness.  It  seems  wonderful 
that  she  could  survive  such  sufferings.  And  it  is  al 
most  as  wonderful  that  I  could  look  upon  them, 
week  after  week,  without  losing  my  senses. 

At  first  Ernest  paid  little  attention  to  my  repeat 
ed  entreaties  that  he  would  prescribe  for  her,  and 
some  precious  time  was  thus  lost.  But  the  mo- 


264  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

ment  he  was  fully  aroused  to  see  her  danger,  there 
was  something  beautiful  in  his  devotion.  He  often 
walked  the  room  with  her  by  the  hour  together, 
and  it  was  touching  to  see  her  lying  like  a  pale, 
crushed  lily  in  his  strong  arms.  One  morning  she 
seemed  almost  gone,  and  we  knelt  around  her  with 
bursting  hearts,  to  commend  her  parting  soul  to 
Him  in  whose  arms  we  were  about  to  place  her. 
But  it  seemed  as  if  all  he  asked  of  us  was  to  come 
to  that  point,  for  then  He  gave  her  back  to  us,  and 
she  is  still  ours,  only  seven-fold  dearer.  I  was  so 
thankful  to  see  dear  Ernest's  faith  triumphing  over 
his  heart,  and  making  him  so  ready  to  give  up  even 
this  little  lamb  without  a  word.  Yes,  we  will  give 
our  children  to  Him  if  He  asks  for  them.  He 
shall  never  have  to  snatch  them  from  us  by  force. 

OCT.  4 — We  have  had  a  quiet  summer  in 

the  country,  that  is,  I  have  with  my  darling  little 
ones.  This  is  the  fourth  birthday  of  our  son  and 
heir,  and  he  has  been  full  of  health  and  vivacity,  en 
joying  everything  with  all  his  heart.  How  he 
lights  up  our  sombre  household!  Father  has  been 
fasting  to-day,  and  is  so  worn  out  and  so  nervous  in 
consequence,  that  he  could  not  bear  the  sound  of 
the  children's  voices.  I  wish,  if  he  must  fast,  he 
would  do  it  moderately,  and  do  it  all  the  time.  Now 
be  goes  without  food  until  he  is  ready  to  sink,  and 


STEPPING  HEA\ENWARD. 


now  he  eats  quantities  of  improper  food.  If  Martha 
could  only  see  how  mischievous  all  this  is  for  him  . 
After  the  children  had  been  hustled  out  of  the 
way,  and  I  had  got  them  both  off  to  bed,  he  said  in 
his  most  doleful  manner,  "  I  hope,  my  daughter,  that 
you  are  faithful  to  your  son.  He  has  now  reached 
the  age  of  four  years,  and  is  a  remarkably  intelli 
gent  child.  I  hope  you  teach  him  that  he  is  a  sin 
ner,  and  that  he  is  in  a  state  of  condemnation." 

"Now,  father,  don't,"  I  said.  "You  are  all  tired 
out,  and  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  I 
would  not  have  little  Ernest  hear  you  for  the  world." 

Poor  father!     He  fairly  groaned. 

"You  are  responsible  for  that  child's  soul,"  he 
said;  "you  have  more  influence  over  him  than  all 
the  world  beside." 

"  I  know  it,"  I  said,  "  and  sometimes  I  feel  ready 
to  sink  when  1  think  of  the  great  work  God  has 
intrusted  to  me.  But  my  poor  child  will  learn  that 
he  is  a  sinner  only  too  soon,  and  before  that  dread 
ful  day  arrives  I  want  to  fortify  his  soul  with  the 
only  antidote  against  the  misery  that  knowledge 
will  give  him.  I  want  him  to  see  his  Redeemer  in 
all  His  love,  and  all  His  beauty,  and  to  love  Him 
with  all  his  heart  and  soul,  and  mind  and  strength. 
Dear  father,  pray  for  him,  and  pray  for  me,  too." 

"I  do,  I  will,"  he  said,  solemnly.  And  then  fol 
lowed  the  inevitable  long  fit  of  silent  musing,  wheD 
12 


266  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

I  often  wonder  what  is  passing  in  that  suffering  soul 
For  a  sufferer  he  certainly  is  who  seea  a  great  ai?d 
good  and  terrible  God  who  cannot  look  upon  in 
iquity,  and  does  not  see  His  risen  Son,  who  has 
paid  the  debt  we  owe,  and  lives  to  intercede  for  us 
before  the  throne  of  the  Father. 

JAN.  1,  1842. — James  came  to  me  yesterday 

with  a  letter  he  had  been  writing  to  mother. 

44 1  want  you  to  read  this  before  it  goes,"  he  said, 
44  for  you  ought  to  know  my  plans  as  soon  aa 
mother  does." 

I  did  not  get  time  to  read  it  till  after  tea.  Then 
I  came  up  here  to  my  room,  and  sat  down  curious 
to  know  what  was  coming. 

Well,  I  thought  I  loved  him  as  much  as  one  hu 
man  being  could  love  another,  already,  but  now  my 
heart  embraced  him  with  a  fervor  and  delight  that 
made  me  so  happy  that  I  could  not  speak  a  word 
when  I  knelt  down  to  tell  my  Saviour  all  about  it. 

He  said  that  he  had  been  led,  within  a  few 
months,  to  make  a  new  consecration  of  himself  to 
Christ  and  to  Christ  s  cause  on  earth,  and  that  this 
had  resulted  in  his  choosing  the  life  of  a  missionary, 
instead  of  settling  down  as  he  had  intended  to  do,  as 
a  city  physician.  Such  expressions  of  personal  love 
to  Christ,  and  delight  in  the  thought  of  ser-ing 
Him,  I  never  read.  I  could  only  marvel  at  what 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  267 

God  had  wrought  in  his  soul.  For  me  to  live  to 
Christ  seems  natural  enough,  for  I  have  been  driven 
to  Him  not  only  by  sorrow  but  by  sin.  Every  out 
break  of  my  hasty  temper,  sends  me  weeping  and 
penitent  to  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  I  love  much 
because  I  have  been  forgiven  much.  But  James,  as 
far  as  I  know,  has  never  had  a  sorrow,  except  my 
father's  death,  and  that  had  no  apparent  religious 
effect.  And  his  natural  character  is  perfectly  beauti 
ful.  He  is  as  warm-hearted  and  loving  and  simple 
and  guileless  as  a  child,  and  has  nothing  of  my  in 
temperance,  hastiness  and  quick  temper.  I  have 
often  thought  that  she  would  be  a  rare  woman  who 
could  win  and  wear  such  a  heart  as  his.  Life  has 
done  little  but  smile  upon  him;  he  is  handsome  and 
talented  and  attractive;  everybody  is  fascinated  by 
him,  everybody  caresses  him;  and  yet  he  has  turn 
ed  his  back  on  the  world  that  has  dealt  so  kindly 
with  him,  and  given  himself,  as  Edwards  says, 
•4 clean  away  to  Christ!"  Oh,  how  thankful  I  arn! 
And  yet  to  let  him  go!  My  only  brother — mother's 
only  son!  But  I  know  what  she  will  say;  she  will 
bid  him  God-speed! 

Ernest  came  up  stairs,  looking  tired  and  jaded. 
I  read  the  letter  to  him.  It  impressed  him  strange 
ly;  but  he  only  said: 

44  This  is  what  we  might  expect,  who  knew  Jainea 
dear  fellow!" 


268  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

But  when  we  knelt  down  to  pray  together,  I  saw 
how  he  was  touched,  and  how  his  soul  kindled 
within  him  in  harmony  with  that  consecrated,  de 
voted  spirit.  Dear  James!  it  must  be  mother's 
prayers  that  have  done  for  him  this  wondrous 
work  that  is  usually  the  slow  growth  of  years;  arid 
this  is  the  mother  who  prays  for  you,  Katy!  So 
take  courage! 

JAN.  2. — James  means  to  study  theology  as 

well  as  medicine,  it  seems.  That  will  keep  him  with 
us  for  some  years.  Oh,  is  it  selfish  to  take  this  view 
of  it  ?  Alas,  the  spirit  is  willing  to  have  him  go,  but 
the  flesh  is  weak,  and  cries  out. 

OCT.  22. — Amelia  came  to  see  me  to-day 

She  has  been  traveling,  for  her  health,  and  certainly 
looks  much  improved. 

"  Charley  and  I  are  quite  good  friends  again,"  she 
began.  "We  have  jaunted  about  everywhere,  and 
have  a  delightful  time.  What  a  snug  little  box  of  a 
house  you  have?" 

"  It  is  inconveniently  small,"  I  said,  "  for  our  fam 
ily  is  large,  and  the  doctor  needs  more  office  room." 

"Does  he  receive  patients  here?  How  horrid! 
Don't  you  hate  to  have  people  with  all  sorts  of  ills 
and  aches  in  the  house?  It  must  depress  youi 
spirits." 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  269 

"I  dare  say  it  would  if  I  saw  them;  but  I  never 

do." 

"I  should  like  to  see  your  children.  Your  hua 
band  says  you  are  perfectly  devoted  to  them." 

"As  I  suppose  all  mothers  are,"  I  replied,  laughing. 

"As  to  that,"  she  returned,  "people  differ." 

The  children  were  brought  down.  She  admired 
little  Ernest,  as  every  body  does,  but  only  glanced 
at  the  baby. 

"What  a  sickly  looking  little  thing!"  she  said. 
"But  this  boy  is  a  splendid  fellow!  Ah,  if  mine 
had  lived  he  would  have  been  just  such  a  child! 
But  some  people  have  all  the  trouble  and  others  all 
the  comfort.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  have 
done  that  I  should  have  to  lose  my  only  boy,  and 
have  nothing  left  but  girls.  To  be  sure  I  can  afford 
to  dress  them  elegantly,  and  as  soon  as  they  get  old 
enough  I  mean  to  have  them  taught  all  sorts  of 
accomplishments.  You  can't  imagine  what  a  relief 
it  is  to  have  plenty  of  money ! " 

"Indeed,  I  can't!"  I  said,  "it  is  quite  beyond  the 
reach  of  my  imagination." 

"My  uncle — that  is  to  say  Charley's  uncle — hai 
just  given  me  a  carriage  and  horses  for  my  own 
use.  In  fact  he  heaps  everything  upon  me.  Where 
do  you  go  to  church?" 

I  told  her,  reminding  her  that  Dr.  Cabot  was  it« 
pastor. 


270  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

''Oh,  I  forgot!  Poor  Dr.  Cabot!  Is  he  a*  old 
fashioned  as  ever  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  ?  "  I  cried.  "  Ho 
is  as  good  as  ever,  if  not  better.  His  health  is  very 
delicate,  and  that  one  thing  seems  to  be  a  blessing 
to  him.' 

"A  blessing!  Why,  Kate  Mortimer!  Kate  El- 
liott,  I  mean.  It  is  a  blessing  I,  for  one,  am  very 
willing  to  dispense  with.  But  you  always  did  say 
queer  things.  Well,  I  dare  say  Dr.  Cabot  is  very 
good  and  all  that,  but  his  church  is  not  a  fashion 
able  one,  and  Charley  and  I  go  to  Dr.  Bellamy's. 
That  is,  I  go  once  a  day,  pretty  regularly,  and 
Charley  goes  when  he  feels  like  it.  Good  bye.  I 
must  go  now;  I  have  all  my  fall  shopping  to  do. 
Have  you  done  yours?  Suppose  you  jump  into 
the  carriage  and  go  with  me?  You  can't  imagine 
how  it  passes  away  the  morning  to  drive  from  shop 
to  shop,  looking  over  the  new  goods." 

"There  seem  to  be  a  number  of  things  I  can't 
imagine,"  I  replied,  drily.  "You  must  excuse  me 
this  morning." 

She  took  her  leave.  I  looked  at  her  rich  dress 
as  she  gathered  it  about  her  and  swept  away,  and 
recalled  all  her  empty,  frivolous  talk  with  contempt. 

She  and  Ch ,  her  husband,  I  mean,  are  well 

matched.     They  need  their  money,  and  their  pala 
ces  and  their  fine  clothes  and  handsome  equipages, 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  271 

for  they  have  nothing  else.  How  thankful  I  am 
that  I  am  as  unlike  them  as  ex 

OCTOBER  30. — I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what 

I  was  going  to  say  when  I  was  interrupted  just 
then.  Something  in  the  way  of  self-glorification, 
most  likely.  I  remember  the  contempt  with  which 
I  looked  after  Amelia  as  she  left  our  house,  and  the 
pinnacle  on  which  I  sat  perched  for  some  days, 
when  I  compared  my  life  with  hers.  Alas,  it  was 
my  view  of  life  of  which  I  was  lost  in  admiration, 
for  I  am  sure  that  if  I  ever  come  under  the  com 
plete  dominion  of  Christ's  gospel,  I  shall  not  know 
the  sentiment  of  disdain.  I  feel  truly  ashamed  and 
sorry  that  I  am  still  so  far  from  being  penetrated 
with  that  spirit. 

My  pride  has  had  a  terrible  fall.  As  I  sat  on  my 
throne,  looking  down  on  all  the  Amelias  in  the 
world,  I  felt  a  profound  pity  at  their  delight  in  petty 
trifles,  their  love  of  position,  of  mere  worldly  show 
and  passing  vanities. 

"They  are  all  alike,"  I  said  to  myself.  "They  are 
incapable  of  understanding  a  character  like  mine, 
or  the  exalted,  ennobling  principles  that  govern  me. 
They  crave  the  applause  of  this  world,  they  are 
satisfied  with  fine  clothes,  fine  houses,  fine  equipa 
ges.  They  think  and  talk  of  nothing  else;  I  have 
aot  one  idea  in  common  with  them.  I  see  the 


272  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

emptiness  and  hollo wness  of  these  things.  I  am 
absolutely  unworldly;  my  ambition  is  to  attain 
whatever  they,  in  their  blind  lolly  and  ignorance, 
absolutely  despise." 

Thus  communing  with  myself,  I  was  not  a  little 
pleased  to  hear  Dr.  Cabot  and  his  wife  announced. 
1  hastened  to  meet  them  and  to  display  to  them  the 
virtues  I  so  admired  in  myself.  They  had  hardly  a 
chance  to  utter  a  word.  I  spoke  eloquently  of  my 
contempt  for  worldly  vanities,  and  of  my  enthusi 
astic  longings  for  a  higher  life.  I  even  went  into 
particulars  about  the  foibles  of  some  of  my  ac 
quaintances,  though  faint  misgivings  as  to  the  pro 
priety  of  such  remarks  on  the  absent,  made  me  half 
repent  the  words  I  still  kept  uttering.  When  they 
took  leave,  I  rushed  to  my  room  with  my  heart 
beating,  my  cheeks  all  in  a  glow,  and  caught  up  and 
caressed  the  children  in  a  way  that  seemed  to 
astonish  them.  Then  I  took  my  work  and  sat 
down  to  sew.  What  a  horrible  reaction  now  took 
place!  I  saw  my  refined,  subtle,  disgusting  pride, 
just  as  I  suppose  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Cabot  saw  it!  I 
sat  covered  with  confusion,  shocked  at  myself, 
shocked  at  the  weakness  of  human  nature.  Oh,  to 
get  back  the  good  opinion  of  my  friends !  To  re- 
aover  my  own  self-respect!  But  this  was  impos 
sible.  I  threw  down  my  work  and  walked  about 
my  room.  There  was  a  terrible  struggle  in  my 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  273 

soul.  I  saw  that  instead  of  brooding  over  the  dis 
play  I  had  made  of  myself  to  Dr.  Cabot  I  ought  to 
be  thinking  solely  of  my  appearance  in  the  sight 
of  God,  who  could  see  far  more  plainly  than  any 
earthly  eye  could,  all  my  miserable  pride  and  self- 
conceit.  But  I  could  not  do  that,  and  chafed  about 
till  I  was  worn  out,  body  and  soul.  At  last  I  sent 
the  children  away,  and  knelt  down  and  told  the 
whole  story  to  Him  who  knew  what  I  was  when 
He  had  compassion  on  me,  called  me  by  my  name, 
and  made  me  his  own  child.  And  here  I  found 
a  certain  peace.  Christian,  on  his  way  to  the  celes 
tial  city,  met  and  fought  his  Apollyons  and  his 
giants  too;  but  he  got  there  at  last! 


XVIII. 


HIS  morning  Ernest  received  an  early 
summons  to  Amelia.  I  got  out  of  all 
manner  of  patience  with  him  because  he 
would  take  his  bath  and  eat  his  breakfast 
before  he  went,  and  should  have  driven  any  one 
else  distracted  by  my  hurry  and  flurry. 

44  She    has    had   a   hemorrhage ! "    I    cried.     "  Do, 
Ernest,  make  haste." 

44 Of   course,"   he    returned,    "that    would    come, 
sooner  or  later." 

"You  don't  mean,"  I  said,  "that  she  has  been  in 
danger  of  this  all  along  ?  " 
"I  certainly  do." 

"Then  it  was  very  unkind  in  you  not  to  tell  me 
so." 

"I  told  you  at  the  outset  that  her  lungs   were 
diseased." 

44  No,  you  told  me  no  such  thing.     Oh,  Ernest,  is 
she  going  to  die." 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  so  fond  of  her,"  he 
said,  apologetically. 
(274) 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  275 

"  It  is  not  that,"  I  cried.  "  I  am  distressed  at  the 
thought  of  the  worldly  life  she  has  been  living — at 
my  never  trying  to  influence  her  for  her  good.  If 
she  is  in  danger,  you  will  tell  her  so  ?  Promise  me 

at." 

"I  must  see  her  before  I  make  such  a  promise/ 
he  said,  and  went  out. 

I  flew  up  to  my  room  and  threw  myself  on  my 
knees,  sorrowful,  self-condemned.  I  had  thrown 
away  my  last  opportunity  of  speaking  a  word  to 
her  in  season,  though  I  had  seen  how  much  she 
needed  one,  and  now  she  was  going  to  die!  Oh,  I 
hope  God  will  forgive  me,  and  hear  the  prayers  I 
have  offered  for  her! 

EVENING. — Ernest  says  he  had  a  most  dis 
tressing  scene  at  Amelia's  this  morning.  She  in 
sisted  on  knowing  what  he  thought  of  her,  and  then 
burst  out  into  bitter  complaints  and  lamentations, 
charging  it  to  her  husband  that  she  had  this  dis 
ease,  declaring  that  she  could  not,  and  would  not 
die,  and  insisting  that  he  must  prevent  it.  Her 
uncle  urged  for  a  consultation  of  physicians,  to 
which  Ernest  consented,  of  course,  though  he  says, 
no  mortal  power  can  save  her  now.  I  asked  him 
how  her  husband  appeared,  to  which  he  made  the 
evasive  answer  that  he  appeared  jus*  as  one  would 
expect  him  to  do. 


276  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

DECEMBER. — Amelia  was  so  determined  tc 

see  me  that  Ernest  thought  it  best  for  me  to  go.  1 
found  her  looking  very  feeble. 

"Oh,  Katy,"  she  began  at  once,  "do  make  the 
doctor  say  that  I  shall  get  well!" 

"  I  wish  he  could  say  so  with  truth,"  I  answered. 
"Dear  Amelia,  try  to  think  how  happy  God's  own 
children  are  when  they  are  with  Him." 

"  I  can't  think,"  she  replied.  "  I  do  not  want  to 
think.  I  want  to  forget  all  about  it.  If  it  were  not 
for  this  terrible  cough  I  could  forget  it,  for  I  am 
really  a  great  deal  better  than  I  was  a  month 
ago." 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  what  to  do. 

"May  I  read  a  hymn,  or  a  few  verses  from  the 
Bible?"  I  asked,  at  last. 

"Just  as  you  like,"  she  said,  indifferently. 

I  read  a  verse  now  and  then,  but  she  looked 
tired,  and  I  prepared  to  go. 

"Don't  go,"  she  cried.  "I  do  not  dare  to  be 
alone.  Oh,  what  a  terrible,  terrible  thing  it  is  to 
die!  To  leave  this  bright,  beautiful  world,  and  be 
nailed  up  in  a  coffin  and  buried  up  in  a  cold,  dark 
grave ! " 

"Nay,"  I  said,  "to  leave  this  poor  sick  body 
there,  and  to  fly  to  a  world  ten  thousand  timee 
brighter,  more  beautiful  than  this." 

44 1  had  just  got  to  feeling  nearly  well,"  she  said, 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  277 

"and  I  had  everything  I  wanted,  and  Charley  wa* 
quite  good  to  me,  and  I  kept  my  little  girls  looking 
like  fairies,  just  from  fairy-land.  Everybody  sai^ 
they  wore  the  most  picturesque  costumes  when  the/ 
were  dressed  according  to  my  taste.  And  I  have  got 
to  go  and  leave  them,  and  Charley  will  be  marry 
ing  somebody  else  and  saying  to  her  all  the  iiice 
things  he  has  said  to  me." 

"I  really  must  go  now,"  I  said.  "You  are 
wearing  yourself  all  out." 

"  I  declare  you  are  crying,"  she  exclaimed.  "  You 
do  pity  me  after  all." 

"  Indeed,  I  do,"  I  said,  and  came  away,  heartsick. 

Ernest  says  there  is  nothing  1  can  do  for  her  npw 
but  to  pray  for  her,  since  she  does  not  really  be 
lieve  herself  in  danger,  and  has  a  vague  feeling  that 
if  she  can  once  convince  him  how  much  she  wants 
to  live,  he  will  use  some  vigorous  measures  to  re 
store  her.  Martha  is  to  watch  with  her  to-night 
Ernest  will  not  let  me. 

JAN.  18,  1843. — Our  wedding-day  has  passed 

unobserved.     Amelia's    suffering    condition    absorbs 
us  all.     Martha   spends   much  time  with   her,   and 
prepares  almost  all  the  food  she  eats. 

JAN.    20. — I   have    seen   poor    Amelia   once 

more,  and  perhaps  for  the  last  time.     She  has  failed 


278  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

rapidly  of  late,  and  Ernest  says  may  drop  away  at 
almost  any  time. 

When  I  went  in  she  took  me  oy  the  hand,  and 
with  great  difficulty,  and  at  intervals,  said  some 
thing  like  this : 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  it,  and  I  know  it 
must  come.  I  want  to  see  Dr.  Cabot.  Do  you 
think  he  would  be  willing  to  visit  me  after  my  ne 
glecting  him  so  ?  " 

"I  am  sure  he  would,"  I  cried. 

"  I  want  to  ask  him  if  he  thinks  I  was  a  Christian 
at  that  time — you  know  when.  If  I  was,  then  1 
need  not  be  so  afraid  to  die." 

".But,  dear  Amelia,  what  he  thinks  is  very  little 
to  the  purpose.  The  question  is  not  whether  you 
ever  gave  yourself  to  God,  but  whether  you  are 
His  now.  But  I  ought  not  to  talk  to  you.  Dr. 
Cabot  will  know  just  what  to  say." 

"  No,  but  I  want  to  know  what  you  thought  about 
it." 

I  felt  distressed  as  I  looked  at  her  wasted  dying 
figure,  to  be  called  on  to  help  decide  such  a  ques 
tion.  But  I  knew  what  I  ought  to  say,  and  said  it : 
"Don't  look  back  to  the  past;  it  is  useless.  Give 
yourself  to  Christ  now." 

She  shook  her  head. 

•'I  don't  know  how,"  she  said.  "Oh,  Katy,  pray 
to  God  to  let  me  live  long  enough  to  get  ready  to 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  279 

die.  I  have  led  a  worldly  life.  I  shudder  at  the 
bare  thought  of  dying;  I  must  have  time." 

"Don't  wait  for  time,'  I  said,  with  tears,  uget 
roady  now,  this  minute.  A  thousand  years  would 
not  make  you  more  fit  to  die." 

So  I  came  away,  weary  and  heavy-laden,  and  on 
the  way  home  stopped  to  tell  Dr.  Cabot  all  about  it, 
and  by  this  time  he  is  with  her. 

MARCH  1. — Poor  Amelia's  short  race  on 

earth  is  over.  Dr.  Cabot  saw  her  every  few  days 
and  says  he  hopes  she  did  depart  in  Christian  faith, 
though  without  Christian  joy.  I  have  not  seen  her 
since  that  last  interview.  That  excited  me  so  that 
Ernest  would  not  let  me  go  again. 

Martha  has  been  there  nearly  the  whole  time  for 
three  or  four  weeks,  and  I  really  think  it  has  done 
her  good.  She  seems  less  absorbed  in  mere  out 
side  things,  and  more  lenient  toward  me  and  my 
failings.  . 

I  do  not  know  what  is  to  become  of  those 
motherless  little  girls.  I  wish  I  could  take  them 
into  my  own  home,  but,  of  course,  that  is  not  even 
to  be  thought  of  at  this  juncture.  Ernest  says  their 
father  seemed  nearly  distracted  when  Amelia  died, 
and  that  his  uncle  is  going  to  send  him  off  to  Europa 
immediately. 

I  have  been  talking  with   Ernest  about  Amelia 


280  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"What  do  you  think,"  I  asked  "about  her  last  days 
on  earth?  Was  there  really  any  preparation  for 
death?" 

"These  scenes  are  very  painful,"  he  returned. 
"Of  course  there  is  but  one  real  preparation  foi 
Christian  dying,  and  that  is  Christian  living." 

"  But  the  sick-room  often  does  what  a  prosperous 
life  never  did!" 

"Not  often.  Sick  persons  delude  themselves,  or 
are  deluded  by  their  friends;  they  do  not  believe 
they  are  really  about  to  die.  Besides,  they  are  be 
wildered  and  exhausted  by  disease,  and  what  men 
tal  strength  they  have  is  occupied  with  studying 
symptoms,  watching  for  the  doctor,  and  the  like.  I 
do  not  now  recall  a  single  instance  where  a  worldly 
Christian  died  a  happy,  joyful  death,  in  all  my  prac 
tice." 

"  Well,  in  one  sense  it  makes  no  difference  whether 
they  die  happily  or  not.  The  question  is,  do  they 
die  in  the  Lord?" 

"It  may  make  no  vital  difference  to  them;  but 
we  must  not  forget  that  God  is  honored  or  dis 
honored  by  the  way  a  Christian  dies,  as  well  as  by 
the  way  in  which  he  lives.  There  is  great  signifi 
cance  in  the  description  given  in  the  Bible  of  the 
death  by  which  John  should  '  Glorify  God;1  to  rnjp 
tnind  it  implies  that  to  die  well  is  to  live  well." 

"But  how  many  thousands   die   suddenly,  or  of 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  281 

eiich  exhausting  disease  that  they  cannot  honoi 
God  by  even  one  feeble  word." 

44  Of  course  I  do  not  refer  to  such  cases.  All  I 
ask  is  that  those  whose  minds  are  clear,  who  are 
able  to  attend  to  all  other  final  details,  should  let  it 
be  seen  what  the  gospel  of  Christ  can  do  for  poor 
sinners  in  the  great  exigency  of  life,  giving  Him  the 
glory.  I  can  tell  you,  my  darling,  that  standing,  aa 

I  so  often  do,  by  dying  beds,  this  whole  subject  has 
become  one  of  great  magnitude  to  my  mind.     And 
it  gives  me  positive  personal  pain  to  see  heirs  of  the 
eternal    kingdom,    made    such    by   the    ignominioua 
death  of  their  Lord,  go  shrinking  and  weeping  to 
the  full  possession  of  their  inheritance." 

Ernest  is  right,  I  am  sure,  but  how  shall  the 
world,  even  the  Christian  world,  be  convinced,  that 
it  may  have  blessed  foretastes  of  heaven  while  yet 
plodding  upon  earth,  and  faith  to  go  thither  joyfully, 
for  the  simple  asking? 

Poor  Amelia!     But   she   understands  it   all   now. 

I 1  is  a  blessed  thing  to  have  this  great  faith,  and  it  is 
a  blessed  thing  to  have  a  Saviour  who  accepts  it 
when  it  is  but  a  mere  grain  of  mustard  seed ! 

MAY  24. — I  celebrated  my  little  Una's  third 

birthday  by  presenting  her  with  a  new  brother. 
Both  the  children  welcomed  him  with  delight  that 
was  of  itself  compensation  enough  for  a]l  it  cost  me 


282  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

to  get  up  such  a  celebration.  Martha  takes  a  most 
prosaic  view  of  this  proceeding,  in  which  she  de 
tects  malice  prepense  on  my  part.  She  says  I  shall 
now  have  one  mouth  the  more  to  fill,  and  two  feet 
the  more  to  shoe;  more  disturbed  nights,  more  la 
borious  days,  and  less  leisure  for  visiting,  reading, 
music,  and  drawing. 

Well!  this  is  one  side  of  the  story,  to  be  sure, 
but  I  look  at  the  other.  Here  is  a  sweet,  fragrant 
mouth  to  kiss;  here  are  two  more  feet  to  make 
music  with  their  pattering  about  my  nursery.  Here 
is  a  soul  to  train  for  God,  and  the  body  in  which  it 
dwells  is  worthy  all  it  will  cost,  since  it  is  the  abode 
of  a  kingly  tenant.  I  may  see  less  of  friends,  but  1 
have  gained  one  dearer  than  them  all,  to  whom, 
while  I  minister  in  Christ's  name,  I  make  a  willing 
sacrifice  of  what  little  leisure  for  my  own  recreation, 
my  other  darlings  had  left  me.  Yes,  my  precious 
baby,  you  are  welcome  to  your  mother's  heart, 
welcome  to  her  time,  her  strength,  her  health,  her 
tenderest  cares,  to  her  life-long  prayers!  Oh,  how 
rich  I  am,  how  truly,  how  wondrously  blest! 

JUNE  5. — We  begin  to  be  wofully  crowded. 

We  need  a  larger  house,  or  a  smaller  household.  I 
am  afraid  I  secretly,  down  at  the  bottom  of  my 
heait,  wish  Martha  and  her  father  could  give  pla(;e 
to  my  little  ones.  May  God  forgive  HK  if  this  jp 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  283 

HO  f  It  is  a  poor  time  for  such  emotions  when  He 
bas  just  given  me  another  darling  child,  for  whom  I 
have  as  rich  and  ample  a  love  as  if  I  had  spent  no 
affection  on  the  other  twain.  I  have  made  myself 
especially  kind  to  poor  father  and  to  Martha,  lest 
they  should  perceive  how  inconvenient  it  is  to  have 
them  here,  and  be  pained  by  it.  I  would  not,  for 
the  world,  despoil  them  of  what  little  satisfaction 
they  may  derive  from  living  with  us.  But,  oh! 
I  am  so  selfish,  and  it  is  so  hard  to  practice  the  very 
law  of  love  I  preach  to  my  children !  Yet  I  want 
this  law  to  rule  and  reign  in  my  home,  that  it  may 
be  a  little  heaven  below,  and  I  will  not,  no  I  ivill 
not,  cease  praying  that  it  may  be  such,  no  matter 
what  it  costs  me.  Poor  father !  poor  old  man !  I 
will  try  to  make  your  home  so  sweet  and  home 
like  to  you,  that  when  you  change  it  for  heaveo 
it  shall  be  but  a  transition  from  one  bliss  to  a 
higher ! 

EVENING. — Soon   after   writing   that,    I   went 

down  to  see  father  whom  I  have  had  to  neglect  of 
late,  baby  has  so  used  up  both  time  and  strength.  I 
found  him  and  Martha  engaged  in  what  seemed  to 
be  an  exciting  debate,  as  Martha  had  a  fiery  little 
red  spot  on  each  cheek,  and  was  knitting  furiously, 
I  was  about  to  retreat,  when  she  got  up  in  a  flur 
ried  way,  and  went  off,  saying,  as  she  went: 


284  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"You  tell  her,  father;  I  can't." 

I  went  up  to  him  tenderly  and  took  his  hand.  Ah 
how  gentle  and  loving  we  are  when  we  have  just 
been  speaking  to  God! 

"What  is  it,  dear  father?"  I  asked;  "is  anything 
troubling  you  ?  " 

"She  is  going  to  be  married,"  he  replied. 

"  Dh,  father ! "  I  cried,  "  how  n — "  nice,  I  was  go 
ing  to  say,  but  stopped  just  in  time. 

All  my  abominable  selfishness,  that  I  thought  1 
had  left  at  my  Master's  feet  ten  minutes  before,  now 
came  trooping  back  in  full  force. 

"She's  going  to  be  married;  she'll  go  away,  and 
will  take  her  father  to  live  with  her!  I  can  have 
room  for  my  children,  and  room  for  mother !  Every 
element  of  discord  will  now  leave  my  home,  and 
Ernest  will  see  what  I  really  am ! " 

These  were  the  thoughts  that  rushed  through  my 
mind,  and  that  illuminated  my  face. 

"Does  Ernest  know?"  I  asked 

"Yes,  Ernest  has  known  it  for  some  weeks." 

Then  I  felt  injured  and  inwardly  accused  Ernest 
of  unkindness  in  keeping  so  important  a  fact  a  se 
cret.  But  when  I  went  back  to  my  children,  vex 
ation  with  him  took  flight  at  once.  The  coming  of 
each  new  child  strengthens  and  deepens  ray  desire 
to  be  what  I  would  have  it  become;  makes  my 
faults  more  odious  in  my  eyes,  and  elevates  my 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  285 

whole  character.  What  a  blessed  discipline  of  joy 
and  of  pain  my  married  life  has  been;  how  thank 
ful  I  am  to  reap  its  fruits  even  while  pricked  by  ita 
thorns ! 

JUNE  21. — It  seems  that  the  happy  man  who 

has  wooed  Martha  and  won  her,  is  no  less  a  person 
age  than  old  Mr.  Underbill.  His  ideal  of  a  woman 
is  one  who  has  no  nerves,  no  sentiment,  no  back 
aches,  no  headaches,  who  will  see  that  the  wheels 
of  his  household  machinery  are  kept  well  oiled,  so 
that  he  need  never  hear  them  creak,  and  who,  in 
addition  to  her  other  accomplishments,  believes  in 
him  and  will  be  kind  enough  to  live  for  ever  for  hia 
private  accommodation.  This  expose  of  his  senti 
ments  he  has  made  to  me  in  a  loud,  cheerful,  pom 
pous  way,  and  he  has  also  favored  me  with  a  des 
cription  of  his  first  wife,  who  lacked  all  these  quali 
fications,  and  was  obliging  enough  to  depart  in 
peace  at  an  early  stage  of  their  married  life,  meekly 
preferring  thus  to  make  way  for  a  worthier  succes 
sor.  Mr.  Underbill,  with  all  his  foibles,  however, 
is  on  the  whole  a  good  man.  He  intends  to  take 
Amelia's  little  girls  into  his  own  home,  and  be  a 
father,  as  Martha  will  be  a  mother,  to  them.  For 
this  reason  he  hurries  on  the  marriage,  after  which 
I  hey  will  all  go  at  once  to  his  country-seat,  wHoh 
is  easy  of  access,  and  which  he  says  he  is  sure 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 


father  will  enjoy.  Poor  old  father!  I  hope  he  will, 
but  when  the  subject  is  alluded  to  he  maintains  a 
sombre  silence,  and  it  seems  to  me  he  never  spent 
so  many  days  alone  in  his  room,  brooding  over  hia 
misery,  as  he  has  of  late.  Oh,  that  I  could  comfoit 
him. 

JULY  12. — The  marriage  was  appointed  for 

the  first  of  the  month,  as  old  Mr.  Underbill  wanted 
to  get  out  of  town  before  the  Fourth.  As  the  time 
drew  near,  Martha  began  to  pack  father's  trunk  aa 
well  as  her  own,  and  brush  in  and  out  of  his  room 
till  he  had  no  rest  for  the  sole  of  his  foot,  and  seemed 
as  forlorn  as  a  pelican  in  the  wilderness. 

I  know  no  more  striking  picture  of  desolation 
than  that  presented  by  one  of  these  quaint  birds, 
standing  upon  a  single  leg,  feeling  as  the  story  has 
it,  "den  Jammer  und  das  Elend  der  Welt." 

On  the  last  evening  in  June  we  all  sat  together 
on  the  piazza,  enjoying,  each  in  our  own  way,  a  re 
freshing  breeze  that  had  sprung  up  after  a  sultry 
day.  Father  was  quieter  than  usual,  and  seemed 
very  languid.  Ernest,  who  out  of  regard  to  Mar 
tha  s  last  evening  at  home,  had  joined  our  little  cir 
cle,  observed  this,  and  said,  cheerfully: 

"You  will  feel  better  as  soon  as  you  are  once 
more  out  of  the  city,  father." 

Father  made  no  reply  for  some  minutes,  and  when 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  287 

he  did  speak  we  were  all  startled  to  find  that  hi§ 
voice  tremjled  as  if  he  were  shedding  tears.  We 
could  not  understand  what  he  said.  I  went  to  him 
and  made  him  lean  his  head  upon  me  as  he  often 
did  when  it  ached.  He  took  my  hand  in  both  his 

"  You  do  love  the  old  man  a  little  ? M  he  asked,  in 
the  same  tremulous  voice. 

"Indeed,  I  do!"  I  cried,  greatly  touched  by  hia 
helpless  appeal,  "I  love  you  dearly,  father.  And  1 
shall  miss  you  sadly." 

"Must  I  go  away  then?"  he  whispered.  "Can 
not  I  stay  here  till  my  summons  hence  ?  It  will  not 
be  long,  it  will  not  be  long,  my  child." 

With  the  cry  of  a  hurt  animal,  Martha  sprang  up 
and  rushed  passed  us  into  the  house.  Ernest  followed 
her,  and  we  heard  them  talking  together  a  long 
time.  At  last  Ernest  joined  us. 

"Father,"  he  said,  "Martha  is  a  good  deal 
wounded  and  disappointed  at  your  reluctance  to  go 
with  her.  She  threatens  to  break  off  her  engage 
ment  rather  than  to  be  separated  from  you.  1  real 
ly  think  you  would  be  better  off  with  her  than  with 
us.  You  would  enjoy  country  life,  because  it  i» 
what  you  have  been  accustomed  to;  you  could 
spend  hours  of  every  day  in  driving  about;  just 
what  your  health  requires." 

Father  did  not  reply.  He  took  Ernest's  arm  and 
tottered  into  the  house.  Then  we  had  a  most  pain 


288  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

fill  scene.  Martha  reminded  him  with  bitter  teara, 
that  her  mother  had  committed  him  to  her  with  her 
last  breath,  and  set  before  him  all  the  advantages 
he  would  have  in  her  house  over  ours.  Father  sat 
pale  and  inflexible,  tear  after  tear  rolling  down  his 
cheeks.  Ernest  looked  distressed  and  ready  to 
sink.  As  for  me  I  cried  with  Martha,  and  with  her 
father  by  turns,  and  clung  to  Ernest  with  a  feeling 
that  all  the  foundations  of  the  earth  were  giving  way. 
It  came  time  for  evening  prayers,  and  Ernest  prayed 
as  he  rarely  does,  for  he  is  rarely  so  moved.  He 
quieted  us  all  by  a  few  simple  words  of  appeal  to 
Him  who  loved  us,  and  father  then  consented  to 
spend  the  summer  with  Martha  if  he  might  call  our 
home  his  home,  and  be  with  us  through  the  winter. 
But  this  was  not  till  long  after  the  rest  of  us  went 
to  bed,  and  a  hard  battle  with  Ernest.  He  says  Er 
nest  is  his  favorite  child,  and  that  I  am  his  favorite 
daughter,  and  our  children  inexpressibly  dear  to 
him.  I  am  ashamed  to  write  down  what  he  said  of 
me.  Besides,  I  am  sure  there  is  a  wicked,  wicked 
triumph  over  Martha  in  my  secret  heart  I  am  too 
elated  with  his  extraordinary  preference  for  us,  to 
sympathize  with  her  mortification  and  grief  as  I 
ought.  Something  whispered  that  she  who  has 
never  pitied  me  deserves  no  pity  now.  But  I  do 
not  like  this  mean  and  narrow  spirit  in  myself,  nay 
more,  I  hate  and  abhor  it 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  289 

The  marriage  took  place  and  they  all  went  off 
together,  father's  rigid,  white  face,  whiter,  more 
rigid  than  ever.  I  am  to  go  to  mother's  with  the 
children  at  once.  I  feel  that  a  great  stone  has  been 
rolled  away  from  before  the  door  of  my  heart;  the 
one  human  being  who  refused  me  a  kindly  smile,  a 
sympathizing  word,  has  gone,  never  to  return. 
May  God  go  with  her  and  give  her  a  happy  home, 
and  make  her  true  and  loving  to  those  motherlesi 
little  ones! 


XIX. 


OCTOBEB  1. 

HAVE  had  a  charming  summer  with  deal 
mother;  and  now  I  have  the  great  joy,  so 
long  deferred,  of  having  her  in  my  own 
home.  Ernest  has  been  very  cordial  about 
it,  and  James  has  settled  up  all  her  worldly  affairs, 
so  that  she  has  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  love  ua 
and  let  us  love  her.  It  is  a  pleasant  picture  to  see 
her  with  my  little  darlings  about  her,  telling  the  old 
sweet  story  she  told  me  so  often,  and  making  God 
and  Heaven  and  Christ  such  blissful  realities.  As  I 
listen,  I  realize  that  it  is  to  her  I  owe  that  early, 
deep-seated  longing  to  please  the  Lord  Jesus,  which 
I  never  remember  as  having  a  beginning,  or  an  end 
ing,  though  it  did  have  its  fluctuations.  And  it  is 
another  pleasant  picture  to  see  her  sit  in  her  own 
old  chair,  which  Ernest  was  thoughtful  enough  to 
Lave  brought  for  her,  pondering  cheerfully  over  her 
Bible  and  her  Thomas  a  Kempis  just  as  I  have  seen 
her  do  ever  since  I  can  remember.  And  there  is 
(290 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  291 

still  a  third  pleasant  picture,  only  that  is  a  new  one; 
it  is  as  she  sits  at  my  right  hand  at  the  table,  the 
living  personification  of  the  blessed  gospel  of  good 
tidings,  with  father,  opposite,  the  fading  image  of 
the  law  given  by  Moses.  For  father  has  come  back; 
father  and  all  his  ailments,  his  pill-boxes,  his  fits  of 
despair  and  his  fits  of  dying.  But  he  is  quiet  and 
gentle,  and  even  loving,  and  as  he  sits  in  his  corner, 
his  Bible  on  his  knees,  I  see  how  much  more  he 
reads  the  New  Testament  than  he  used  to  do,  and 
that  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  St.  John  almost  opens 
to  him  of  itself. 

I  must  do  Martha  the  justice  to  say  that  her  ab 
sence,  while  it  increases  my  domestic  peace  and 
happiness,  increases  my  cares  also.  What  with  the 
children,  the  housekeeping,  the  thought  for  mother's 
little  comforts  and  the  concern  for  father's,  I  am 
like  a  bit  of  chaff  driven  before  the  wind,  and  al 
ways  in  a  hurry.  There  are  so  many  stitches  to  be 
taken,  so  many  things  to  pass  through  one's  brain ! 
Mother  says  no  mortal  woman  ought  to  undertake 
so  much,  but  what  can  I  do?  While  Ernest  is 
straining  every  nerve  to  pay  off  those  debts,  I  must 
do  all  the  needle  work,  and  we  must  get  along  with 
servants  whose  want  of  skill  makes  them  willing  to 
put  up  with  low  wages.  Of  course  I  cannot  tell 
mother  this,  and  I  really  believe  she  thinks  I  scrimp 
and  pinch  and  overdo  out  of  mere  stinginess. 


292  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

DECEMBER  30. — Ernest  came  to  me  to  day 

with  our  accounts  for  the  last  three  months.  He 
looked  quite  worried,  for  him,  and  asked  me  if  theie 
were  any  expenses  we  could  cut  down. 

My  heart  jumped  up  into  my  mouth,  and  I  said 
in  an  irritated  way: 

*'  I  am  killing  myself  with  over- work  now.  Moth 
er  says  so.  I  sew  every  night  till  twelve  o'clock, 
and  I  feel  all  jaded  out." 

"I  did  not  mean  that  I  wanted  you  to  do  any 
more  than  you  are  doing  now,  dear,"  he  said,  kind 
ly.  "I  know  you  are  all  jaded  out,  and  I  look  on 
this  state  of  feverish  activity  with  great  anxiety. 
Are  all  these  stitches  absolutely  necessary?" 

"You  men  know  nothing  about  such  things,"  I 
said,  while  my  conscience  pricked  me  as  I  went  on 
hurrying  to  finish  the  fifth  tuck  in  one  of  Una's  lit 
tle  dresses.  "  Of  course  I  want  my  children  to  look 
decent." 

Ernest  sighed. 

"I  really  don't  know  what  to  do,"  he  said,  in  a 
hopeless  way.  "Father's  persisting  in  living  with 
us  is  throwing  a  burden  on  you,  that  with  all  your 
other  cares  is  quite  too  much  for  you.  I  see  and 
feel  it  every  day.  Don't  you  think  I  had  better  ex 
plain  this  to  him  and  let  him  go  to  Martha's?" 

"  No,  indeed ! "  I  said.  "  He  shall  stay  here  if  it 
kills  me,  poor  old  man ! " 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  293 

Ernest  began  once  more  to  look  over  the  bills, 
"  [  don't  know  how  it  is,"  he  said,  "  but  since  Mar 
tha  left  us  our  expenses  have  increased  a  good 
deal/ 

Now  the  truth  is  that  when  aunty  paid  me  most 
generoi".sly  for  teaching  her  children,  I  did  not  daro 
to  offer  my  earnings  to  Ernest,  lest  he  should  be  an 
noyed.  So  I  had  quietly  used  it  for  household  ex 
penses,  and  it  had  held  out  till  about  the  time  of  Mar 
tha's  marriage.  Ernest's  injustice  was  just  as  pain 
ful,  just  as  insufferable  as  if  he  had  known  this,  and 
I  now  burst  out  with  whatever  my  rasped,  over 
taxed  nerves  impelled  me  to  say,  like  one  possessed. 

Ernest  was  annoyed  and  surprised. 

"I  thought  we  had  done  with  these  things,"  he 
said,  and  gathering  up  the  papers  he  went  off. 

I  rose  and  locked  my  door  and  threw  myself 
down  upon  the  floor  in  an  agony  of  shame,  anger, 
and  physical  exhaustion.  I  did  not  know  how  large 
a  part  of  what  seemed  mere  childish  ill-temper,  was 
really  the  cry  of  exasperated  nerves,  that  had  been 
on  too  strained  a  tension,  and  silent  too  long,  and 
Ernest  did  not  know  it  either.  Ho»w  could  he? 
His  profession  kept  him  for  hours  every  day  in  the 
open  air;  there  were  times  when  his  work  was  done 
and  he  could  take  entire  rest;  and  his  health  is  ab 
solutely  perfect.  But  I  did  not  make  any  excuse 
for  myself  at  the  moment.  I  was  overwhelmed 


294  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

with  tlie  sense  of  my  utter  unfitness  to  be  a  wife 
and  a  mother. 

Then  I  heard  Ernest  try  to  open  the  door,  and 
finding  it  locked,  he  knocked,  calling  pleasantly, 

"It  is  I,  darling;  let  me  in." 

I  opened  it  reluctantly  enough. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "put  on  your  things  and  drive 
about  with  me  on  my  rounds.  I  have  no  long  vis 
its  to  make,  and  while  I  am  seeing  my  patients  you 
will  be  getting  the  air,  which  you  need" 

"I  do  not  want  to  go,"  I  said.  "I  do  not  feel 
well  enough.  Besides,  there's  my  work." 

"You  can't  see  to  sew  with  these  red  eyes,"  he 
declared.  "Come!  I  prescribe  a  drive,  as  your 
physician." 

"Oh,  Ernest,  how  kind,  how  forgiving  you  are!" 
I  cried,  running  into  the  arms  he  held  out  to  me 
"  If  you  knew  how  ashamed,  how  sorry  I  am !  " 

"  And  if  you  only  knew  how  ashamed  and  sorry 
I  am ! "  he  returned.  "  I  ought  to  have  seen  how 
you  were  taxing  and  over-taxing  yourself,  doing 
your  own  work  and  Martha's  too.  It  must  not  go 
on  so." 

By  this  time,  with  a  veil  over  my  face,  he  had 
get  me  down  stairs  and  out  into  the  air,  which 
fanned  my  fiery  cheeks  and  cooled  my  heated  brain, 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  have  had  all  this  tempest 
about  nothing  at  all,  and  that  with  a  character  stiU 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  295 

BO  undisciplined,  I  was  utterly  unworthy  to  be  eitaer 
a  wife  or  a  mother.  But  when  I  tried  to  say  so  in 
broken  words,  Ernest  comforted  me  with  the  gentle 
ness  and  tenderness  of  a  woman. 

"Your  character  is  not  undisciplined,  my  dar 
ling,"  he  said.  "  Your  nervous  organization  is  veij 
peculiar,  and  you  have  had  unusual  cares  and  trials 
from  the  beginning  of  our  married  life.  I  ought 
not  to  have  confronted  you  with  my  father's  debts 
at  a  moment  when  you  had  every  reason  to  look 
forward  to  freedom  from  most  petty  economies  and 
cares." 

"Don't  say  so,"  I  interrupted.  "If  you  had  not 
told  me  you  had  this  draft  on  your  resources  I 
should  have  always  suspected  you  of  meanness.  For 
you  know,  dear,  you  have  kept  me — that  is  to  say 
— well  you  could  not  help  it,  but  I  suppose  men 
can't  understand  how  many  demands  are  made 
upon  a  mother  for  money  almost  every  day.  I  got 
along  very  well  till  the  children  came,  but  since 
then  it  has  been  very  hard." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  am  sure  it  has.  But  let  me 
finish  what  I  was  going  to  say.  I  want  you  to 
make  a  distinction  for  yourself,  which  I  make  for 
you,  between  mere  ill-temper,  and  the  irritability 
that  is  the  result  of  a  goaded  state  of  the  nerves. 
Until  you  do  that,  nothing  can  be  done  to  relieve 
you  from  what  I  am  sure  distresses  and  gvievea 


296  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

you  exceedingly.  Now,  I  suppose  that  whenevei 
you  speak  to  me  or  the  children  in  this  irritated 
way  you  lose  your  own  self-respect,  for  the  time, 
at  least,  and  feel  degraded  in  the  sight  of  God  also." 

44  Oh,  Ernest !  there  are  no  words  in  any  language 
that  mean  enough  to  express  the  anguish  I  feel 
when  I  speak  quick,  impatient  words  to  you,  the 
one  human  being  in  the  universe  whom  I  love  with 
all  my  heart  and  soul,  and  to  my  darling  little  chil 
dren  who  are  almost  as  dear!  I  pray  and  mourn 
over  it  day  and  night.  God  only  knows  how  I  hate 
myself  on  account  of  this  one  horrible  sin ! " 

44  It  is  a  sin  only  as  you  deliberately  and  wilfully 
fulfil  the  conditions  that  lead  to  such  results.  Now 
I  am  sure  if  you  could  once  make  up  your  mind  in 
the  fear  of  God,  never  to  undertake  more  work  of 
any  sort  than  you  can  carry  on  calmly,  quietly, 
without  hurry  or  flurry,  and  the  instant  you  find 
yourself  growing  nervous  and  like  one  out  of  breath, 
would  stop  and  take  breath,  you  would  find  this 
simple,  common-sense  rule  doing  for  you  what  no 
prayers  or  tears  could  ever  accomplish.  Will  you 
try  it  for  one  month,  my  darling?" 

44  But  we  can't  afford  it,"  I  cried,  with  almost  a 
groan.  "Why,  you  have  told  me  this  very  day 
that  our  expenses  must  be  cut  down,  and  now  you 
want  me  to  add  to  them  by  doing  less  work.  Bui 
the  work  mus*  be  done.  The  children  must  be 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  297 

clothed,  and  there  is  no  end  to  the  stitches  to  be 
taken  for  them,  and  your  stockings  must  be  mended 
— you  make  enormous  holes  in  them !  and  you  don't 
like  it  if  you  ever  find  a  button  wanting  to  a  shirt, 
or  your  supply  of  shirts  getting  low." 

"All  you  say  may  be  very  true,"  he  returned, 
*4  but  I  am  determined  that  you  shall  not  be  driven 
to  desperation  as  you  have  been  of  late." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  house  where 
his  visit  was  to  be  made,  and  I  had  nothing  to  do 
but  lean  back  and  revolve  all  he  had  been  saying, 
over  and  over  again,  and  to  see  its  reasonableness 
while  I  could  not  see  what  was  to  be  done  for  my 
relief.  Ah,  I  have  often  felt  in  moments  of  bitter 
grief  at  my  impatience  with  my  children,  that  per 
haps  God  pitied  more  than  He  blamed  me  for  it! 
And  now  my  dear  husband  was  doing  the  same! 

When  Ernest  had  finished  his  visit  we  drove  on 
again  in  silence. 

At  last  I  asked, 

"Do  tell  me,  Ernest,  if  you  worked  out  this 
problem  all  by  yourself?" 

He  smiled  a  little. 

"No,  I  did  not.  But  I  have  had  a  patient  for 
two  or  three  years  whose  case  has  interested  me  a 
good  deal,  and  for  whom  I  finally  prescribed  just  as 
I  have  done  for  you.  The  thing  worked  like  a  charm 
and  she  is  now  physically  and  morally  quite  well/ 


298  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"  I  dare  say  her  husband  is  a  rich  man,"  I  said. 

"  He  is  not  as  poor  as  your  husband,  at  any  rate," 
Ernest  replied.  "But  rich  or  poor  I  am  deter- 
mined  not  to  sit  looking  on  while  you  exert  your 
self  so  far  beyond  your  strength.  Just  think,  dear, 
suppose  for  fifty  or  a  hundred  or  two  hundred 
dollars  a  year  you  could  buy  a  sweet,  cheerful, 
quiet  tone  of  mind,  would  you  hesitate  one  moment 
to  do  so  ?  And  you  can  do  it  if  you  will.  You  are 
not  HI- tempered  but  quick- tempered  ;  the  irrita 
bility  which  annoys  you  so  is  a  physical  infirmity 
which  will  disappear  the  moment  you  cease  to  be 
goaded  into  it  by  that  exacting  mistress  you  have 
hitherto  been  to  yourself." 

All  this  sounded  very  plausible  while  Ernest  was 
talking,  but  the  moment  I  got  home  I  snatched  up 
my  work  from  mere  force  of  habit. 

44 1  may  as  well  finish  this  as  it  is  begun,"  I  said 
to  myself,  and  the  stitches  flew  from  my  needle  like 
aparks  of  fire.  Little  Ernest  came  and  begged  for 
a  story,  but  I  put  him  off.  Then  Una  wanted  to  sit 
in  my  lap,  but  I  told  her  I  was  too  busy.  In  the 
course  of  an  hour  the  influence  of  the  fresh  air  and 
of  Ernest's  talk  had  nearly  lost  their  power  o\cr 
me;  my  thread  kept  breaking,  the  children  leaned 
on  and  tired  me,  the  baby  woke  up  and  cried,  ami 
I  got  all  out  of  patience. 

"Do  go  away,  Ernest,"  I  said,  "and  let  mamma 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  299 

have  a  little  peace  Don't  you  see  how  busy  I  am? 
Go  and  play  with  Una  like  a  good  boy."  But  ha 
would  not  go,  and  kept  teasing  Una  till  she,  too, 
began  to  cry,  and  she  and  baby  made  a  regular 
concert  of  it. 

U0h,  dear!"  I  sighed,  "this  work  will  never  be 
done!"  and  threw  it  down  impatiently,  and  took 
the  baby  impatiently,  and  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  with  him  impatiently.  I  was  not  willing  that 
this  little  darling,  whom  I  love  so  dearly,  should 
get  through  with  his  nap,  and  interrupt  my  work; 
yet  I  was  displeased  with  myself,  and  tried  by  kiss 
ing  him  to  make  some  amends  for  the  hasty,  un 
pleasant  tones  with  which  I  had  grieved  him  and 
frightened  the  other  children.  This  evening  Er 
nest  came  to  me  with  a  larger  sum  of  money  than 
he  had  ever  given  me  at  one  time. 

"  Now  every  cent  of  this  is  to  be  spent,"  he  said, 
"in  having  work  done.  I  know  any  number  of 
poor  women  who  will  be  thankful  to  have  all  you 
can  give  them." 

Dear  me !  it  is  easy  to  talk,  and  I  do  feel  grateful 
to  Ernest  for  his  thoughtfulness  and  kindness.  But 
I  am  almost  in  rags,  and  need  every  cent  of  this 
money  to  make  myself  decent.  I  am  positively 
ashamed  to  go  anywhere  my  clothes  are  so  shabby. 
Besides,  supposing  I  leave  off  sewing  and  all  sorti 
of  over-doing  of  a  kindred  nature,  I  must  nurse  my 


300  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

baby,  I  suppose,  and  be  up  with  him  nights,  and  the 
others  will  have  their  cross  days  and  their  sick  days, 
and  father  will  have  his.  Alas,  there  can  be  for  me 
no  royal  road  to  a  "  sweet,  cheerful,  quiet  tone  of 
mind ! " 

JAN.  1,  1844. — Mother  says  Ernest  is  entirely 

right  in  forbidding  my  working  go  hard.  I  must 
own  that  I  already  feel  better.  I  have  all  the  time  I 
need  to  read  my  Bible,  and  to  pray  now,  and  the 
children  do  not  irritate  and  annoy  me  as  they  did. 
Who  knows  but  I  shall  yet  become  quite  amiable? 

Ernest  made  his  father  very  happy  to-day  by 
telling  him  that  the  last  of  those  wretched  debta 
is  paid.  I  think  that  he  might  have  told  me  that 
this  deliverance  was  at  hand.  I  did  not  know  but 
we  had  years  of  these  struggles  with  poverty  be 
fore  us.  What  with  the  relief  from  this  anxiety,  my 
improved  state  of  health,  and  father's  pleasure,  I  am 
in  splendid  spirits  to-day.  Ernest,  too,  seems  won 
derfully  cheerful,  and  we  both  feel  that  we  may 
now  look  forward  to  a  quiet  happiness  we  have 
never  known.  With  such  a  husband  and  such 
children  as  mine,  I  ought  to  be  the  most  grateful 
creature  on  earth.  And  I  have  dear  mother  and 
James  besides,  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  think 
about  James'  relation  to  Lucy.  He  is  so  brimful 
and  running  over  with  happiness  that  he  is  also  full 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  801 

jf  fun  and  of  love,  and  after  all  he  may  only  like 
her  as  a  cousin. 

FEB.    14. — Father  has  not  been   so  well  of 

late.  It  seems  as  if  he  kept  up  until  he  was  re 
lieved  about  those  debts,  and  then  sunk  down.  1 
read  to  him  a  good  deal,  and  so  does  mother,  but 
his  mind  is  still  dark,  and  he  looks  forward  to  the 
hour  of  death  with  painful  misgivings.  He  is  get 
ting  a  little  childish  about  my  leaving  him,  and 
clings  to  me  exactly  as  if  I  were  his  own  child. 
Martha  spends  a  good  deal  of  time  with  him,  and 
fusses  over  him  in  a  way  that  I  wonder  she  does  not 
see  is  annoying  to  him.  He  wants  to  be  read  to,  to 
hear  a  hymn  sung  or  a  verse  repeated,  and  to  be 
left  otherwise  in  perfect  quiet.  But  she  is  continual 
ly  pulling  out  and  shaking  up  his  pillows,  bathing 
his  head  in  hot  vinegar  and  soaking  his  feet.  It 
looks  so  odd  to  see  her  in  one  of  the  elegant  silk 
dresses  old  Mr.  Underbill  makes  her  wear,  with  her 
sleeves  rolled  up,  the  skirt  hid  away  under  a  large 
apron,  rubbing  away  at  poor  father  till  it  seems  aa 
if  his  tired  soul  would  fly  out  of  him. 

FEB.   20. — Father  grows  weaker  every  day. 

Ernest  has  sent  for  his  other  children,  John  and 
Helen.  Martha  is  no  longer  able  to  come  here: 
her  husband  is  very  sick  with  a  fever,  and  cannot 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 


be  left  alone.  No  doubt  he  enjoys  her  Lust  ling 
way  of  nursing,  and  likes  to  have  his  pillows  pushed 
from  under  him  every  five  minutes.  I  am  afraid  I 
feel  glad  that  she  is  kept  away,  and  that  I  have  fa 
ther  all  to  myself.  Ernest  never  was  so  fond  of  me 
as  he  is  now.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  ol  it. 

FEB.  22. — John  and  his  wife  and  Helen  have 

come.     They  stay  at  Martha's  where  there  is  plenty 
of  room.     John's  wife  is  a  little  soft  dumpling  of  a 
thing,  and  looks  up  to  him  as  a  mouse  would  look 
up  at  a  steeple.     He   strikes   me   as  a  very  selfish 
man.     He  steers  straight  for  the  best  seat,  leaving 
her  standing,  if  need  be,  accepts  her  humble  atten 
tions  with  the  air  of  one  collecting  his  just  debts, 
and  is  continually  snubbing  and  setting  her  right. 
Yet  in  some  things  he  is  very  like  Ernest,  and  per 
haps  a  wife  destitute  of  self-assertion  and  withou' 
much  individuality  would  have  spoiled  him  as  Har 
riet  has  spoiled  John.     For  I  think  it  must  be  parti} 
her  fault  that  he  dares  to  be  so  egotistical.     Helen 
is   the  dearest,  prettiest  creature  I  ever  saw.     Oh. 
why  would  James  take  a  fancy  to  Lucy !     I  feel  the 
new  delight  of  having  a  sister  to  love  and  to  ad 
mire.     And  she  will  love  me,  in  time;  I  feel  sure 
of  it 

MARCH   1.  —  Father   is   very  feeble,   and   in 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  303 

great  mental  distress.  He  gropes  about  in  the 
dark,  and  shudders  at  the  approach  of  death.  We 
can  do  nothing  but  pray  for  him.  And  the  cloud 
will  be  lifted  when  he  leaves  this  world  if  not  before. 
For  I  know  he  is  a  good,  yes,  a  saintly  man,  dear 
to  God  and  dear  to  Christ. 

MARCH  4. — Dear  father  has  gone.  We  were 

all  kneeling  and  praying  and  weeping  around  him, 
when  suddenly  he  called  me  to  come  to  him.  I 
went  and  let  him  lean  his  head  on  my  breast,  as  he 
loved  to  do.  Sometimes  I  have  stood  so  by  the 
hour  together  ready  to  sink  with  fatigue,  and  only 
kept  up  with  the  thought  that  if  this  were  my  own 
precious  father's  bruised  head  I  could  stand  and 
hold  it  forever. 

"Daughter  Katherine,"  he  said,  in  his  faint, 
tremulous  way,  "you  have  come  with  me  to  the 
very  brink  of  the  river.  I  thank  God  for  all  your 
cheering  words  and  ways.  I  thank  God  for  giving 
you  to  be  a  helpmeet  to  my  son.  Farewell,  now," 
he  added  in  a  low,  firm  voice,  "I  feel  the  bottom, 
and  it  is  good!" 

He  lay  back  on  his  pillow  looking  upward  with 
an  expression  of  seraphic  peace  and  joy  on  his  worn, 
meagre  face,  and  so  his  life  passed  gently  away. 

Oh,  the  affluence  of  God's  payments !  What  a 
recompense  for  the  poor  love  I  had  given  my  hus- 


304  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

baud's  father,  and  the  poor  little  services  I  had 
rendered  him!  Oh,  that  I  had  never  been  impa 
tient  with  him,  never  smiled  at  his  peculiarities, 
never  in  my  secret  heart  felt  him  unwelcome  to  my 
home !  And  how  wholly  I  overlooked,  in  my  blind 
selfishness,  what  he  must  have  suffered  in  feeling 
himself  homeless,  dwelling  with  us  on  sufferance, 
but  master  and  head  nowhere  on  earth!  May  God 
carry  these  lessons  home  to  my  heart  of  hearts,  and 
make  this  cloud  of  mingled  remorse  and  shame 
which  now  envelops  me,  to  descend  in  showers  of 
love  and  benediction  on  every  human  soul  that  mine 
can  bless! 


XX. 


APRIL. 

HAVE  had  a  new  lesson  which  has  almost 
broken  my  heart.  In  looking  over  his 
father's  papers,  Ernest  found  a  little  jour 
nal,  brief  in  its  records  indeed,  but  we 
learn  from  it  that  on  all  those  wedding  and  birth 
days,  when  I  fancied  his  austere  religion  made  him 
hold  aloof  from  our  merry-making,  he  was  spending 
1  he  time  in  fasting  and  praying  for  us  and  for  our 
children  !  Oh,  shall  I  ever  learn  the  sweet  charity 
that  thinketh  no  evil,  and  believeth  all  things! 
What  blessings  may  not  have  descended  upon  us 
and  our  children  through  those  prayers!  What 
evils  may  they  not  have  warded  off!  Dear  old  fa 
ther  !  Oh,  that  I  could  once  more  put  my  loving 
arms  about  him  and  bid  him  welcome  to  our  home ! 
And  how  gladly  would  I  now  confess  to  him  all  my 
unjust  judgments  concerning  him  and  entreat  his 
forgiveness!  Must  life  always  go  on  thus?  Must 
I  always  ue  erring,  ignorant  and  blind?  How  I 
(305) 


306  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

hate  iliis  arrogant  sweeping  past  my  brother  man; 
this  utter  ignoring  of  his  hidden  life! 

I  see  now  that  it  is  well  for  mother  that  she  did 
not  come  to  live  with  me  at  the  beginning  of  my 
married  life.  I  should  not  have  borne  with  her 
little  peculiarities,  nor  have  made  her  half  so  happy 
as  I  can  now.  I  thank  God  that  my  varied  disap 
pointments  and  discomforts,  my  feeble  health,  my 
poverty,  my  mortifications  have  done  me  some  lit 
tle  good,  and  driven  me  to  Him  a  thousand  times  be 
cause  I  could  not  get  along  without  His  help.  But 
I  am  not  satisfied  with  my  state  in  His  sight.  I  am 
sure  something  is  lacking,  though  I  know  not  what 
it  is. 

MAY. — Helen  is  going  to  stay  here  and  live 

with  Martha.  How  glad,  how  enchanted  I  am! 
Old  Mr.  Underhill  is  getting  well;  I  saw  him  to 
day.  He  can  talk  of  nothing  but  his  illness,  of 
Martha's  wonderful  skill  in  nursing  him,  declaring 
that  he  owos  his  life  to  her.  I  felt  a  little  piqued  at 
this  speech,  because  Ernest  was  very  attentive  to 
him,  and  no  doubt  did  his  share  towards  the  cure. 
We  have  fitted  up  father's  room  for  a  nursery. 
Hitherto  all  the  children  have  had  to  sleep  in  our 
room,  which  has  been  bad  for  them  and  bad  for  us, 
I  have  been  so  afraid  they  would  keep  Ernest  awake 
if  they  were  unwell  and  restless.  I  have  secured 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  307 

an  excellent  nurse,  who  is  as  fresh  and  blooming  as 
the  flower  whose  name  she  bears.  The  children 
are  already  attached  to  her,  and  I  feel  that  the  worst 
of  my  life  is  now  over. 

JUNE. — Little  Ernest  was  taken  sick  on  the 

very  day  I  wrote   that.     The   attack   was   fearfully 
sudden  and  violent.     He  is  still  very,  very  ill.     I  have 
not  forgotten  that  I  said  once  that  I  would  give  my 
children  to  God  should  He  ask  for  them.     And   I 
will.     But,  oh,  this  agony  of  suspense !     It  eats  into 
my  soul  and  eats  it  away.     Oh,   my  little  Ernest ! 
My  first-born   son!     My  pride,   my  joy,  my   hopeJ 
And  I  thought  the  worst  of  my  life  was  over! 

AUGUST. — We  have   come   into   the    country 

with  what  God  has  left  us,  our  two  youngest  chil 
dren.     Yes,  I  have  tasted  the  bitter  cup  of  bereave 
ment,  and  drunk  it  down  to  its  dregs.     I  gave,  my 
darling  to  God,  I  gave  him,  I  gave  him !     But,  oh, 
with    what    anguish    I    saw    those    round,    dimpled 
limbs  wither  and  waste  away,  the  glad  smile  fade 
forever   from    that   beautiful    face!     What  a  fearful 
thing  it  is  to  be  a  mother!     But  I  have  given  my 
child  to  God.     I  would  not  recall  him  if  I  could.     I 
am  thankful  He  has  counted  me  worthy  to  present 
Him  so  costly  a  gift. 

I  cannot  shed  a  tear,  and  I  must  find  relief  in 


• 
308  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 


writing,  or  I  shall  lose  my  senses.  My  noble,  beau 
tiful  boy !  My  first-born  son !  And  to  think  that 
my  delicate  little  Una  still  lives,  and  that  death  has 
claimed  that  bright,  glad  creature  who  was  the 
sunshine  of  our  home ! 

But  let  me  not  forget  my  mercies.  Let  me  not 
forget  that  I  have  a  precious  husband  and  two  dar 
ling  children,  and  my  kind,  sympathizing  mother 
Btill  left  to  me.  Let  me  not  forget  how  many  kind 
friends  gathered  about  us  in  our  sorrow.  Above 
all  let  me  remember  God's  loving-kindness  and  ten 
der  mercy.  He  has  not  left  us  to  the  bitterness  of 
a  grief  that  refuses  and  disdains  to  be  comforted. 
We  believe  in  Him,  we  love  Him,  we  worship  Him 
as  we  never  did  before. 

My  dear  Ernest  has  felt  this  sorrow  to  his  heart's 
core.  But  he  has  not  for  one  moment  questioned 
the  goodness  or  the  love  of  our  Father  in  thus  tak 
ing  from  us  the  child  who  promised  to  be  our 
greatest  earthly  joy.  Our  consent  to  God's  will 
has  drawn  us  together  very  closely;  together  we 
bear  the  yoke  in  our  youth,  together  we  pray  and 
ging  praises  in  the  very  midst  of  our  tears.  "  I  was 
dumb  with  silence  because  Thou  didst  it." 

SEPT. — The  old  pain  and  cough  have  come 

back  with  the  first  cool  nights  of  this  month.  Per 
haps  I  am  going  to  my  darling — I  do  not  know.  I 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  80S 

urn  certainly  very  feeble.  Consenting  to  suffer  does 
not  annul  the  suffering.  Such  a  child  could  not  go 
hence  without  rending  and  tearing  its  way  out  of 
the  heart  that  loved  it.  This  world  is  wholly 
changed  to  me  and  I  walk  in  it  like  one  in  a  dream. 
And  dear  Ernest  is  changed,  too.  He  says  little, 
and  is  all  kindness  and  goodness  to  me,  but  I  can 
see  that  here  is  a  wound  that  will  never  be  healed. 
I  am  confined  to  my  room  now  with  nothing  to 
do  but  to  think,  think,  think.  I  do  not  believe  that 
God  has  taken  our  child  in  mere  displeasure,  but  I 
cannot  but  feel  that  this  affliction  might  not  have 
been  necessary  if  I  had  not  so  chafed  and  writhed, 
and  secretly  repined  at  the  way  in  which  my  home 
was  invaded,  and  at  our  galling  poverty.  God  has 
exchanged  the  one  discipline  for  the  other;  and, 
oh,  how  far  more  bitter  is  this  cup ! 

OCT.  4. — My  darling  boy  would  have  been 

six  years  old  to-day.  Ernest  still  keeps  me  shut  up, 
but  he  rather  urges  my  seeing  a  friend  now  and 
then.  People  say  very  strange  things  in  the  way  of 
consolation.  I  begin  to  think  that  a  tender  2lasp  of 
the  hand  is  about  all  one  can  give  to  the  afflicted- 
One  says  I  must  not  grieve,  because  my  child  is  bet 
ter  off  in  heaven.  Yes  he  is  better  off;  I  know  it, 
I  feel  it,  but  I  miss  him  none  the  less.  Oth(  rs  say, 
l-e  might  have  grown  up  to  be  a  bad  man  and  brok- 


510  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

en  my  heart.  Perhaps  he  might,  but  I  cannot  make 
myself  believe  that  likely.  One  lady  asked  me,  if 
this  affliction  was  not  a  rebuke  of  my  idolatry  of 
my  darling;  and  another,  if  I  had  not  been  in  a  cold, 
worldly  state,  needing  this  severe  blow  on  that  ao 
count. 

But  I  find  no  consolation  or  support  in  these  re 
marks.  My  comfort  is  in  my  perfect  faith  in  the 
goodness  and  love  of  my  Father,  my  certainty  that 
He  had  a  reason  in  thus  afflicting  me  that  I  should 
admire  and  adore  if  I  knew  what  it  was.  And  in 
the  midst  of  my  sorrow  I  have  had  and  do  have  a 
delight  in  Him  hitherto  unknown,  so  that  some 
times  this  room  in  which  I  am  a  prisoner  seems  like 
the  very  gate  of  heaven. 

MAT. — A  long  winter  in  my  room,  and  all 

sorts  of  painful  remedies  and  appliances  and  depri 
vations.  And  now  I  am  getting  well,  and  drive  out 
every  day.  Martha  sends  her  carriage,  and  mother 
goes  with  me.  Dear  mother!  How  nearly  perfect 
she  is !  I  never  saw  a  sweeter  face,  nor  ever  heard 
sweater  expressions  of  faith  in  God,  and  love  to  all 
about  her,  than  hers.  She  has  been  my  tower  of 
strength  all  through  these  weary  months,  and 
yet  she  has  shared  my  sorrow  and  made  it  bei 
own. 

I  can  see  that  dear  Ernest's  affliction  and  this  pro 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  311 

longed  anxiety  about  me  have  been  a  heavenly 
benediction  to  him.  I  am  sure  that  every  mother 
whoso  sick  child  he  visits,  will  have  a  sympathy  hft 
could  not  have  gi  ven  while  all  our  own  little  one§ 
were  alive  and  well.  I  thank  God  that  He  has  thua 
increased  my  dear  husband's  usefulness,  as  I  think 
that  He  has  mine  also.  How  tenderly  I  already 
feel  towards  all  suffering  children,  and  how  easy  it 
will  be  now  to  be  patient  with  them ! 

KEENK,  N.  H.,  JULY  12. — It  is  a  year  ago  this  day 
that  the  brightest  sunshine  faded  out  of  our  lives, 
and  our  beautiful  boy  was  taken  from  us.  I  have 
been  tempted  to  spend  this  anniversary  in  bitter 
tears  and  lamentations.  For,  oh,  this  sorrow  is  not 
healed  by  time!  I  feel  it  more  and  more.  But  I 
begged  God  when  I  first  awoke  this  morning  not 
to  let  me  so  dishonor  and  grieve  Him.  I  may  suf 
fer,  I  must  suffer,  He  means  it,  He  wills  it,  but  let 
it  be  without  repining,  without  gloomy  desponden 
cy.  The  world  is  full  of  sorrow;  it  is  not  I  alone 
who  taste  its  bitter  draughts,  nor  have  I  the  only 
right  to  a  sad  countenance.  Oh,  for  patience  to 
bear  on,  cost  what  it  may ! 

"  Cheerfully  and  gratefully  I  lay  myself  and  all  I 
am  or  own,  at  the  feet  of  Him  who  redeemed  me 
with  His  precious  blood,  engaging  to  follow  Him; 
bearing  the  cross  He  lays  upon  me."  This  is  the 


312  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

least  I  can  do,  and  I  do  it  while  my  heart  lies  brok 
en  and  bleeding  at  His  feet. 

My  dear  little  Una  has  improved  somewhat  in 
Uealth,  but  I  am  never  free  from  anxiety  about  her 
She  is  my  milk-white  lamb,  my  dove,  my  fragrant 
(lower  One  cannot  look  in  her  pure  face  without 
a  sense  of  peace  and  rest.  She  is  the  sentinel  who 
voluntarily  guards  my  door  when  I  am  engaged  at 
my  devotions;  she  is  my  little  comforter  when  I  am 
sad;  my  companion  and  friend  at  all  times.  I  talk 
to  her  of  Christ,  and  always  have  done,  just  as  1 
think  of  Him,  and  as  if  I  expected  sympathy  from 
her  in  my  love  to  Him.  It  was  the  same  with  my 
darling  Ernest.  If  I  required  a  little  self-denial,  I 
said,  cheerfully,  "This  is  hard,  but  doing  it  for  our 
best  Friend  sweetens  it,"  and  their  alacrity  was 
pleasant  to  see.  Ernest  threw  his  whole  soul  into 
whatever  he  did,  and  sometimes  when  engaged  in 
play  would  hesitate  a  little  when  directed  to  do 
something  else,  such  as  carrying  a  message  for  me, 
and  the  like.  But  if  I  said,  "  If  you  do  this  cheer 
fully  and  pleasantly,  my  darling,  you  do  it  for  Jesus, 
and  that  will  make  Him  smile  upon  you,"  he  would 
invariably  yield  at  once. 

Is  not  this  the  true,  the  natural  way  of  linking 
every  little  daily  act  of  a  child's  life  with  that  Di 
vine  Love,  that  Divine  Life  which  gives  meaning  tv 
all  things? 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  313 

But  what  do  I  mean  by  the  vain  boast  that  I  have 
always  trained  my  children  thus  ?  Alas !  I  have 
done  it  only  at  times;  for  while  my  theory  was 
sound,  my  temper  of  mind  was  but  too  often  un 
sound.  I  was  often  and 'often  impatient  with  my 
dear  iittle  boy;  often  my  tone  was  a  worldly  one; 
I  was  often  full  of  eager  interest  in  mere  outside 
things,  and  forgot  that  I  was  living  or  that  my  chil 
dren  were  living  save  for  the  present  moment. 

It  seems  now  that  I  have  a  child  in  heaven,  and 
am  bound  to  the  invisible  world  by  such  a  tie,  that 
I  can  never  again  be  entirely  absorbed  by  this. 

I  fancy  my  ardent,  eager  little  boy  as  having  some 
such  employments  in  his  new  and  happy  home  as 
he  had  here.  I  see  him  loving  Him  who  took  chil 
dren  in  His  arms  and  blessed  them,  with  all  the 
warmth  of  which  his  nature  is  capable,  and  as  per 
haps  employed  as  one  of  those  messengers  whom 
God  sends  forth  as  His  ministers.  For  I  cannot 
think  of  those  active  feet,  those  busy  hands  as  al 
ways  quiet.  Ah,  my  darling,  that  I  could  look  in 
upon  you  for  a  moment,  a  single  moment,  and  catch 
one  of  your  radiant  smiles ;  just  one ! 

AUGUST   4. — How   full    are    David's    Psalma 

of  the  cry  of  the  sufferer!     He  must  have  experi- 
enced  every  kind  of  bodily  and  mental  torture.     lie 
gives  most  vivid  illustrations  of  the  wasting,  wear' 
H 


514  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

ing  pro  jess  .of  disease — for  instance,  what  a  contrast 
is  the  picture  we  have  of  him  when  he  was,  "rud 
dy,  and  withal  of  a  beautiful  countenance,  and 
goodly  to  look  to,"  and  the  one  he  paints  of  him 
self  in  after  years,  when  he  says,  "  I  may  tell  all  my 
bones,  they  look  and  stare  upon  me;  my  days  are 
like  a  shadow  that  declineth,  and  I  am  withered  like 
grass.  I  am  weary  with  groaning;  all  the  night 
make  I  my  bed  to  swim ;  I  water  my  couch  with 
my  tears.  For  my  soul  is  full  of  troubles;  and  my 
life  draweth  near  unto  the  grave." 

And  then  what  wails  of  anguish  are  these ! 

"  I  am  afflicted,  and  ready  to  die  from  my  youth 
up ;  while  I  suffer  thy  terrors  I  am  distracted.  Thy 
wrath  lieth  hard  upon  me  and  thou  hast  afflicted 
me  with  all  thy  waves.  All  thy  waves  and  thy  bil 
lows  have  gone  over  me.  Lover  and  friend  hasl 
fchou  put  far  from  me,  and  mine  acquaintance  into 
utter  darkness." 

Yet  through  it  all  what  grateful  joy  in  God,  what 
expressions  of  living  faith  and  devotion!  During 
my  long  illness  and  confinement  to  my  room,  the 
Bible  laas  been  almost  a  new  book  to  me,  and  1  se< 
that  God  has  always  dealt  with  His  children  as  lit 
deals  with  them  now,  and  that  no  new  thing  hat 
befallen  me.  All  these  weary  days  so  full  of  Ian 
guor,  these  nights  so  full  of  unrest,  have  had  theii 
appointed  mission  to  my  soul.  And  perhaps  I  hav* 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  315 

had  no  discipline  so  salutary  as  this  forced  inaction 
and  uselessness,  at  a  time  when  youth  and  natural 
energy  continually  cried  out  for  room  and  work. 

AUGUST    15. — I    dragged    out    my    drawing 

materials  in  a  listless  way  this  morning,  and  began 
to  sketch  the  "beautiful  scene  from  my  window.     At 
first  I  could  not  feel  interested.     It  seemed  as  if  my 
hand  was  crippled  and  lost  its  cunning  when  it  un 
loosed  its  grasp  of  little  Ernest,  and  let  him  go.     But 
I  prayed,  as  I  worked,  that  I  might  not  yield  to  tlie 
inclination  to  despise  and  throw  away  the  gift  with 
which  God  has  Himself  endowed  me.     Mother  \\as 
gratified,  and  said  it  rested  her  to  see  me  act  like 
myself  once   more.     Ah,  I  have   been  very  selfish, 
and  have  been  far  too  much  absorbed  with  my  sor 
row  and  my  illness  and  my  own  petty  struggles. 

AUGUST    19. — I    met   to-day   an    old   friend, 

Maria  Kelly,  who  is  married,  it  seems,  and  settled 
down  in  this  pretty  village.     She   asked   so   many 
questions  about  my  little  Ernest  that  I  had  to  tell 
her  the   whole   story  of  his   precious   life,  sickness 
and  death.     I  forced  myself  to  do  this  quietly,  and 
without  any  great  demand  on  her  sympathies.     My 
reward  for  the  constraint  I  thus  put  upon  myselij 
was  the  abrupt  question: 

"Haven't  you  grown  stoical?" 


516  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

I  felt  the  angiy  blood  rush  through  my  veins  AI 
it  has  not  done  in  a  long  time.  My  pride  was 
wounded  to  the  quick,  and  those  cruel,  unjust 
words  still  rankle  in  my  heart.  This  is  not  as  it 
should  be.  I  am  constantly  praying  that  my  pride 
may  be  humbled,  and  then  when  it  is  attacked,  I 
shrink  from  the  pain  the  blow  causes,  and  am  angry 
with  the  hand  that  inflicts  it.  It  is  just  so  with  two 
or  three  unkind  things  Martha  has  said  to  me.  I 
can't  help  brooding  over  them  and  feeling  stung 
with  their  injustice,  even  while  making  the  most 
desperate  struggle  to  rise  above  and  forget  them. 
It  is  well  for  our  fellow-creatures  that  God  forgives 
and  excuses  them,  when  we  fail  to  do  it,  and  I  can 
easily  fancy  that  poor  Maria  Kelly  is  at  this  moment 
dearer  in  His  sight  than  I  am  who  have  taken  fire 
at  a  chance  word.  And  I  can  see  now,  what  I 
wonder  I  did  not  see  at  the  time,  that  God  was 
dealing  very  kindly  and  wisely  with  me  when  he 
made  Martha  overlook  my  good  qualities,  of  which 
I  suppose  I  have  some,  as  everybody  else  has,  and 
call  out  all  my  bad  ones,  since  the  ax  was  thus  laid, 
at  the  root  of  self-love.  And  it  is  plain  that  self- 
love  cannot  die  without  a  fearful  struggle. 

MAY  26,  1846. — How  long  it  is  since  I  have 

written  in  my  journal !     We  have  had  a  winter  full 
of  cares,  perplexities  and  sicknesses.     Mother  began 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  317 

it  by  such  a  severe  attack  of  inflammatory  rheuma 
tism  as  I  could  not  have  supposed  she  could  live 
through.  Her  sufferings  were  dreadful,  and  I 
might  almost  say  her  patience  was,  for  I  often 
thought  it  would  be  less  painful  to  hear  her  groan 
and  complain,  than  to  witness  such  heroic  fortitude, 
such  sweet  docility  under  God's  hand.  I  hope  1 
shall  never  forget  the  lessons  I  have  learned  in  her 
sick-room.  Ernest  says  he  never  shall  cease  to  re 
joice  that  she  lives  with  us,  and  that  he  can  watch 
over  her  healtn.  He  has  indeed  been  like  a  son  to 
her,  and  this  has  been  a  great  solace  amid  all  her 
sufferings.  Before  she  was  able  to  leave  the  room, 
poor  little  Una  was  prostrated  by  one  of  her  ill 
turns,  and  is  still  very  feeble.  The  only  way  in 
which  she  can  be  diverted  is  by  reading  to  her,  and 
I  have  done  little  else  these  two  months  but  hold 
her  in  my  arms,  singing  little  songs  and  hymns, 
telling  stories  and  reading  what  few  books  I  can 
find  that  are  unexciting,  simple,  yet  enterta'ning. 
My  precious  little  darling!  She  bears  the  yoke  in 
her  youth  without  a  frown,  but  it  is  agonizing  to 
see  her  suffer  so.  How  much  easier  it  would  be  to 
bear  all  her  physical  infirmities  myself!  I  suppose 
fco  those  who  look  on  from  the  outside,  we  must 
appear  like  a  most  unhappy  family,  since  we  hardly 
get  free  from  one  trouble  before  another  steps  in. 
Bui  I  see  more  and  more  that  happiness  is  not  de* 


318  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

pendent  on  health  or  any  other  outside  prosperity. 
We  are  at  peace  with  each  other  and  at  peace  with 
God;  His  dealings  with  us  do  not  perplex  or 
puzzle  us,  though  we  do  not  pretend  to  understand 
them  On  the  other  hand,  Martha,  with  absolutely 
perfect  health,  with  a  husband  entirely  devoted  to 
her,  and  with  every  wish  gratified,  yet  seems  al 
ways  careworn  and  dissatisfied.  Her  servants  worry 
her  very  life  out;  she  misses  the  homely  household 
duties  to  which  she  has  been  accustomed;  and 
her  conscience  stumbles  at  little  things,  arid  over 
looks  greater  ones.  It  is  very  interesting,  I  think, 
to  study  different  homes,  as  well  as  the  different 
characters  that  fDrm  them. 

Amelia's  little  girls  are  quiet,  good  children,  to 
whom  their  father  writes  what  Mr.  Underhill  and 
Martha,  pronounce  "beautiful"  letters,  wherein  he 
always  styles  himself  their  "broken-hearted  but 
devoted  father."  "  Devotion,"  to  my  mind,  involves 
self-sacrifice,  and  I  cannot  reconcile  its  use,  in  this 
case,  with  the  life  of  ease  he  leads,  while  all  the 
care  of  his  children  is  thrown  upon  others.  But 
some  people,  by  means  of  a  few  such  phrases,  not 
only  impose  upon  themselves  but  upon  their  friends, 
and  pass  for  persons  of  great  sensibility. 

As  I  have  been  confined  to  the  house  nearly  the 
whole  winter,  I  have  had  to  derive  my  spiritual 
eupport  from  books,  and  as  mother  gradually  re- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  319 

covered,  she  enjoyed  Leighton  with  me,  as  1  kue\* 
she  would.  Dr.  Cabot  comes  to  sec  us  very  often^ 
but  I  do  not  now  find  it  possible  to  get  the  instruc 
tion  from  him  I  used  to  do.  I  see  that  the  Chris 
tian  life  must  be  individual,  as  the  natural  charac 
ter  is — and  that  I  cannot  be  exactly  like  Dr.  Cabot,  or 
exactly  like  Mrs.  Campbell,  or  exactly  like  mother, 
though  they  all  three  stimulate  and  are  an  inspira 
tion  to  me.  But  I  see,  too,  that  the  great  points 
of  similarity  in  Christ's  disciples  have  always  been 
the  same.  This  is  the  testimony  of  all  the  good 
books,  sermons,  hymns,  and  memoirs  I  read — that 
God's  ways  are  infinitely  perfect;  that  we  are  to 
love  Him  for  what  He  is,  and  therefore  equally  as 
much  when  He  afflicts  as  when  He  prospers  us; 
that  there  is  no  real  happiness  but  in  doing  and 
Buffering  His  will,  and  that  this  life  is  but  a  scene  of 
probation  through  which  we  pass  to  the  real  life 
above. 


XXL 

MAI  30. 

asked  me  to  go  with  him  to  see 
one  of  his  patients,  as  he  often  does  when 
there  is  a  lull  in  the  tempest  at  home.  We 
both  feel  that  as  we  have  so  little  money 
of  our  own  to  give  away,  it  is  a  privilege  to  give 
what  services  and  what  cheering  words  we  can.  As 
I  took  it  for  granted  that  we  were  going  to  see  some 
poor  old  woman,  I  put  up  several  little  packages  of 
tea  and  sugar,  with  which  Susan  Green  always 
keeps  me  supplied,  and  added  a  bottle  of  my  own 
raspberry  vinegar,  which  never  comes  amiss,  I  find, 
to  old  people.  Ernest  drove  to  the  door  of  an 
aristocratic-looking  house,  and  helped  me  to  alight 
in  his  usual  silence. 

44  It  is  probably  one  of  the  servants  we  are  going 
to  visit,"  I  thought  within  myself;  "but  I  ain  sur 
prised  at  his  bringing  me.     The  family  may  not  ap 
prove  it." 
The  next   thing  I   knew   I  found   myself  being 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  32i 

Introduced  to  a  beautiful,  brilliant  young  lady,  \vh<, 
sat  in  a  wheel-chair  like  a  queen  on  a  throne  iii  a 
room  full  of  tasteful  ornaments,  flowers  and  birds. 
Now  I  had  come  away  just  as  1  was,  when  Ernest 
called  me,  and  that  "was"  means  a  very  plain  ging 
ham  dress  wherein  I  had  been  darning  stockings 
all  the  morning.  I  suppose  a  saint  wouldn't  have 
cared  for  that,  but  /  did,  and  for  a  moment  stood  the 
picture  of  confusion,  my  hands  full  of  oddly  shaped 
parcels,  and  my  face  all  in  a  flame. 

"  My  wife,  Miss  Clifford,"  I  heard  Ernest  say,  and 
then  I  caught  the  curious,  puzzled  look  in  her  eyes, 
which  said  as  plainly  as  words  could  do. 

"What  has  the  creature  brought  me?" 

"I  ask  your  pardon,  Miss  Clifford,"  I  said,  think 
ing  it  best  to  speak  out  just  the  honest  truth,  "  but 
I  supposed  the  doctor  was  taking  me  to  see  some 
one  of  his  old  women,  and  so  I  have  brought  you  a 
little  tea,  and  a  little  sugar,  and  a  bottle  of  raspberry 
vinegar ! " 

"  How  delicious ! "  cried  she.  "  It  really  rests  me 
to  meet  with  a  genuine  human  being  at  last !  Why 
didn  t  you  make  some  stiff,  prim  speech,  instead  of 
telling  the  truth  out  and  out?  I  declare  I  mean  t<j 
keep  all  you  have  brought  me,  just  for  the  fun  of 
the  thing." 

This  put  me  at  ease,  and  I  forgot  all  about  my 
dress  in  a  moment. 


322  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"  I  see  you  are  just  what  the  doctor  boasted  you 
were,"  she  went  on.  "But  he  never  would  bring 
you  to  see  me  before.  I  suppose  he  has  told  you 
why  I  could  not  go  to  see  you?" 

"To  tell  the  truth,  he  never  speaks  to  me  of 
his  patients  unless  he  thinks  I  can  be  of  use  to 
them." 

"  I  dare  say  I  do  not  look  much  like  an  invalid," 
said  she;  "but  here  I  am,  tied  to  this  chair.  It  is 
six  months  since  I  could  bear  my  own  weight  upon 
my  feet." 

I  saw  then  that  though  her  face  was  so  bright  and 
full  of  color,  her  hand  was  thin  and  transparent 
But  what  a  picture  she  made  as  she  sat  there  in  her 
magnificent  beauty,  relieved  by  such  a  back-ground 
of  foliage,  flowers,  and  artistic  objects ! 

"I  told  the  doctor  the  other  day  that  life  was 
nothing  but  a  humbug,  and  he  said  he  should  bring 
me  a  remedy  against  that  false  notion  the  next  time 
he  came,  and  you,  I  suppose,  are  that  remedy,"  she 
continued.  "  Come,  begin ;  I  am  ready  to  take  any 
number  of  doses." 

I  could  only  laugh  and  try  to  look  daggers  at 
Ernest,  who  sat  looking  over  a  magazine,  apparent- 
ly  absorbed  in  its  contenta 

"  Ah ! "  she  cried,  nodding  her  head  sagaciously, 
MI  knew  you  would  agree  with  me." 

"  Agree   with  you  in  calling  life  a  humbug  1 "   I 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  323 

cried,  now  fairly  aroused  "  Death  itself  is  not  mor« 
a  reality!" 

"  I  have  not  tried  death  yet,"  she  said,  more  seri 
ously;  "but  I  have  tried  life  twenty-five  years,  and 
I  know  all  about  it.  It  is  eat,  drink,  sleep,  yawn 
and  be  bored.  It  is  what  shall  I  wear,  where  shall 
I  go,  how  shall  I  get  rid  of  the  time;  it  says,  4How 
do  you  do?  how  is  your  husband?  How  are  your 
children?' — it  means,  'Now  I  have  asked  all  the 
conventional  questions,  and  I  don't  care  a  fig  what 
their  answer  may  be/" 

"  This  may  be  its  meaning  to  some  persons,"  I  re 
plied,  "for  instance,  to  mere  pleasure-seekers.  But 
of  course  it  is  interpreted  quite  differently  by  others. 
To  some  it  means  nothing  but  a  dull,  hopeless  strug 
gle  with  poverty  and  hardship  —  and  its  whole 
aspect  might  be  changed  to  them,  should  those  who 
do  not  know  what  to  do  to  get  rid  of  the  time, 
spend  th^ir  surplus  leisure  in  making  this  struggle 
less  brutalizing." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  such  doctrine,  and  at  one 
time  I  tried  charity  myself.  I  picked  up  a  dozen  or 
BO  of  dirty  little  wretches  out  of  the  streets,  arid 
undertook  to  clothe  and  teach  them.  I  might  as 
well  have  tried  to  instruct  the  chairs  in  my  room. 
Besides  the  whole  house  had  to  be  aired  after  they 
had  gone,  and  mamma  missed  two  tea-spoons  and  a 
fork,  and  was  perfectly  disgusted  with  the  whole 


324  STEPPING  HEAVENWARB. 

thing.  Then  I  fell  to  knitting  socks  for  babies,  but 
they  only  occupied  my  hands,  and  my  head  felt  as 
empty  as  ever.  Mamma  took  me  off  on  a  journey, 
as  she  always  did  when  I  took  to  moping,  and  thai 
diverted  me  for  a  while.  But  after  that  everything 
went  on  in  the  old  way.  I  got  rid  of  part  of  the 
day  by  changing  my  dress,  and  putting  on  my 
pretty  things — it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  a  habit  of 
wearing  one's  ornaments,  for  instance;  and  then  ID 
the  evening  one  could  go  to  the  opera  or  the  thea 
ter,  or  some  other  place  of  amusement,  after  which 
one  could  sleep  all  through  the  next  morning,  and 
so  get  rjd  of  that.  But  I  had  been  used  to  such 
things  all  my  life,  and  they  had  got  to  be  about  as 
flat  as  flat  can  be.  If  I  had  been  born  a  little  earlier 
\n  the  history  of  the  world,  I  would  have  gone  into 
a  convent;  but  that  sort  of  thing  is  out  of  fashion  now." 

"The  best  convent,"  I  said,  "for  a  woman,  is  the 
seclusion  of  her  own  home.  There  she  may  find 
her  vocation  and  fight  her  battles,  and  there  she 
may  learn  the  reality  and  the  earnestness  of  life." 

"  Pshaw  ! "  cried  she.  "  Excuse  me,  however,  for 
saying  that;  but  some  of  the  most  brilliant  girla 
I  know  have  settled  down  into  mere  married  womers 
and  spend  their  whole  time  in  nursing  babies  i 
Think  how  belittling !  " 

"  Is  it  more  so  than  spending  it  in  dressing,  driv 
ing,  dancing,  and  the  like?" 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  325 

"Of  course  it  is.  I  had  a  friend  once  who  shone 
like  a  star  in  society.  She  married,  and  had  four 
children  as  fast  as  she  could.  Well !  what  was  the 
consequence?  She  lost  her  beauty,  lost  her  spirit 
and  animation,  lost  her  youth,  and  lost  her  health. 
I  lie  only  earthly  things  she  can  talk  about  are 
teething,  dieting  and  the  measles ! " 

I  laughed  at  this  exaggeration,  and  looked  round 
to  see  what  Ernest  thought  of  such  talk.  But  ho 
had  disappeared. 

"  As  you  have  spoken  plainly  to  me,  knowing  me 
to  be  a  wife  and  a  mother,  you  must  allow  me  to 
speak  plainly  in  return,"  I  began. 

"  Oh,  speak  plainly,  by  all  means !  I  am  quite 
sick  and  tired  of  having  truth  served  up  in  pink 
cotton,  and  scented  with  lavender. " 

"  Then  you  will  permit  me  to  say  that  when  you 
speak  contemptuously  of  the  vocation  of  maternity, 
you  dishonor,  not  only  the  mother  who  bore  you, 
but  the  Lord  Jesus  Himself,  who  chose  to  be  borii 
of  woman,  and  to  be  ministered  unto  by  her  through 
a  helpless  infancy." 

Miss  Clifford  was  a  little  startled. 

"How  terribly  in  earnest  you  are!"  she  said 
•4It  is  plain  that  to  you,  at  any  rate,  life  is  indeed 
no  humbug." 

I  thought  of  my  dear  ones,  of  Ernest,  of  my 
children,  of  mother  and  of  James,  and  I  thought  of 


326  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

iny  love  to  them  and  of  theirs  to  me.  And  1 
thought  of  Him  who  alone  gives  reality  to  even 
such  joys  as  these.  My  face  must  have  been  illu* 
m  in  a  ted  by  the  thought,  for  she  dropped  the  ban- 
taring  tone  she  had  used  hitherto,  and  asked,  with 
real  earnestness: 

"What  is  it  you  know,  and  that  I  do  not  know 
that  makes  you  so  satisfied,  while  I  am  so  dissatis 
fied?" 

I  hesitated  before  I  answered,  feeling  as  I  never 
felt  before,  how  ignorant,  how  unfit  to  lead  others, 
I  really  am.  Then  I  said: 

"  Perhaps  you  need  to  know  God,  to  know  Christ  ?  ' 

She  looked  disappointed  and  tired.  So  I  came 
away,  first  promising,  at  her  request,  to  go  to  see 
her  again.  I  found  Ernest  just  driving  up,  and 
told  him  what  had  passed.  He  listened  in  his  usual 
silence,  and  I  longed  to  have  him  say  whether  I 
had  spoken  wisely  and  well 

JUNE  1. — I  have  been  to  see  Miss  Clifford 

again,  and  made  mother  go  with  me.  Miss  Clifford 
took  a  fancy  to  her  at  once. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  after  one  glance  at  the  dear, 
loving  face,  "nobody  need  tell  me  that  you  are 
good  and  kind.  But  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  good 
people.  I  fancy  they  are  always  criticising  me  and 
expecting  me  to  imitate  their  perfection." 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  327 

"  Perfection  does  not  exact  perfection,"  waa  mo 
ther's  answer.  "I  would  rather  be  judged  by  an 
angel  than  by  a  man/  And  then  mother  led  her 
on,  little  by  little,  and  most  adroitly,  to  talk  of 
herself,  and  of  her  state  of  health.  She  is  an  or 
phan,  and  lives  in  this  great,  stately  house  alone 
with  her  servants.  Until  she  was  laid  aside  by  the 
state  of  her  health,  she  lived  in  the  world  and  of  it. 
Now  she  is  a  prisoner,  and  prisoners  have  time  to 
think 

"Here  I  sit,"  she  said,  "all  day  long.  I  never 
was  fond  of  staying  at  home,  or  of  reading,  and 
needle-work  I  absolutely  hate.  In  fact,  I  do  not 
know  how  to  sew." 

"Some  such  pretty,  feminine  work  might  beguile 
you  of  a  few  of  the  long  hours  of  these  long  days," 
said  mother.  "One  can't  be  always  reading." 

"But  a  lady  came  to  see  me,  a  Mrs.  Goodhue, 
one  of  your  good  sort,  I  suppose,  and  she  preached 
me  quite  a  sermon  on  the  employment  of  time. 
She  said  I  had  a  solemn  admonition  of  Providence, 
and  ought  to  devote  myself  entirely  to  religion.  I 
had  just  begun  to  be  interested  in  a  bit  of  embroid 
ery,  but  she  frightened  me  out  of  it.  But  I  can't 
bear  such  dreadfully  good  people,  with  faces  a  mile 
long." 

Mother  made  her  produce  the  collar,  or  whatevei 
it  was,  showed  her  how  to  hold  her  needle  and  ar- 


328  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

range  her  pattern,  and  they  both  got  so  absorbed 
in  it  that  I  had  leisure  to  look  at  some  of  the  beau 
tiful  things  with  which  the  room  was  full. 

"Make  the  object  of  your  life  right,"  I  heard 
mother  say,  at  last,  "and  these  little  details  will 
take  care  of  themselves." 

"But  I  haven't  any  object,"  Miss  Clifford  ob 
jected,  "unless  it  is  to  get  through  these  tedious 
days,  some  how.  Before  I  was  taken  ill,  my  chief 
object  was  to  make  myself  attractive  to  the  people 
I  met.  And  the  easiest  way  to  do  that  was  to 
dress  becomingly  and  make  myself  look  as  well  as 
I  could." 

"I  suppose,"  said  mother,  "that  most  girls  could 
say  the  same.  They  have  an  instinctive  desire  to 
please,  and  they  take  what  they  conceive  to  be  the 
shortest  and  easiest  road  to  that  end.  It  requires 
no  talent,  no  education,  no  thought  to  dress  taste 
fully;  the  most  empty-hearted,  frivolous  young 
person  can  do  it,  provided  she  has  money  enough. 
Those  who  can't  get  the  money  make  up  for  it  by 
a  feaitul  expenditure  of  precious  time.  They  plan, 
they  cut,  they  fit,  they  rip,  they  trim  till  they  can 
appear  in  society  looking  exactly  like  every  body 
else.  They  think  of  nothing,  talk  of  nothing,  tut 
how  this  shall  be  fashioned,  and  that  be  trimmed; 
and  as  to  their  hair,  Satan  uses  it  as  his  favorite 
and  catches  them  in  it  every  day  of  their  lives. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  329 

'*  But  I  never  cut  or  trimmed,"  said  Miss  Clifford 

41  No,  because  you  could  afford  to  have  it  done 
for  you.  But  you  acknowledge  that  you  spent  a 
great  deal  of  time  in  dressing  because  you  thought 
that  the  easiest  way  of  making  yourself  attractive. 
But  it  does  not  follow  that  the  easiest  way  is  the 
best  way,  and  sometimes  the  longest  way  round  is 
the  shortest  way  home." 

"  For  instance  ?  " 

"  Well,  let  us  imagine  a  young  lady,  living  in  the 
world  as  you  say  you  lived.  She  has  never  seriously 
reflected  on  any  subject  one  half  hour  in  her  life. 
She  has  been  borne  on  by  the  current,  and  let  it 
take  her  where  it  would  But  at  last  some  in 
fluence  is  brought  to  bear  upon  her  which  leads  her 
to  stop  to  look  about  her  and  to  think.  She  finds 
herself  in  a  world  of  serious,  momentous  events. 
She  sees  that  she  cannot  live  in  it,  was  not  meant 
to  live  in  it  forever,  and  "that  her  whole  unknown 
future  depends  on  what  she  is,  not  on  how  she  looks. 
She  begins  to  cast  about  for  some  plan  of  life,  at  d 
this  leads—" 

"Apian  of  life?"  Miss  Clifford  interrupted.  "1 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"Yet  you  would  smile  at  an  architect,  who, 
having  a  noble  structure  to  build,  should  begin  to 
work  on  it  in  a  hap-hazard  way,  putting  in  a  brick 
here  and  a  stone  there,  weaving  in  straws  and  sticks 


830  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

if  they  come  to  hand,  and  when  asked  on  what 
work  he  was  engaged,  and  what  manner  of  build 
ing  he  intended  to  erect,  should  reply  he  had  no 
plan,  but  thought  something  would  come  of  it." 

Miss  Clifford  made  no  reply.  She  sat  with  hei 
head  resting  on  her  hand,  looking  dreamily  before 
her,  a  truly  beautiful,  but  unconscious  picture.  I, 
too,  began  to  reflect,  that  while  I  had  really  aimed 
to  make  the  most  out  of  life,  I  had  not  done  it  me 
thodically  or  intelligently. 

We  are  going  to  try  to  stay  in  town  this  summer. 
Hitherto  Ernest  would  not  listen  to  my  suggestion 
of  what  an  economy  this  would  be.  He  always 
said  this  would  turn  out  anything  but  an  econom) 
in  the  end.  But  now  we  have  no  teething  baby; 
little  Raymond  is  a  strong,  healthy  child,  and  Una 
remarkably  well  for  her,  and  money  is  so  slow  to 
come  in  and  so  fast  to  go  out.  What  discomforts 
we  suffer  in  the  country  it  would  take  a  book  to 
write  down,  and  here  we  shall  have  our  own  home, 
as  usual  I  shall  not  have  to  be  separated  from 
Ernest,  and  shall  have  leisure  to  devote  to  two  very 
interesting  people  who  must  stay  in  town  all  the  year 
round,  no  matter  who  goes  out  of  it.  I  mean  dear 
Mrs.  Campbell  and  Miss  Clifford,  who  both  attract 
me,  though  in  such  different  ways. 


XXII. 


OCTOBER. 

ELL,  I  had  my  own  way,  and  I  am  afraid 
it  has  been  an  unwise  one.  For  though  I 
have  enjoyed  the  leisure  afforded  by  ev 
erybody  being  out  of  town,  and  the  oppor 
tunity  it  has  given  me  to  devote  myself  to  the  very 
sweetest  work  on  earth,  the  care  of  my  darling  lit 
tle  ones,  the  heat  and  the  stifling  atmosphere  have 
been  trying  for  me  and  for  them.  My  pretty  Rose 
went  last  May,  to  bloom  in  a  home  of  her  own,  so  I 
thought  I  would  not  look  for  a  nurse,  but  take  the 
whole  care  of  them  myself.  This  would  not  be 
much  of  a  task  to  a  strong  person,  but  I  am  not 
strong,  and  a  great  deal  of  the  time  just  dressing 
them  and  taking  them  out  to  walk  has  exhausted 
rne.  Then  all  the  mending  and  other  sewing  must 
be  done,  and  with  the  over  exertion  creeps  in  the 
fretful  tone,  the  impatient  word.  Yet  I  never  cau 
be  as  impatient  with  little  children  as  I  should  be, 
but  foi  the  remembrance  that  I  should  count  it  onty 

casu 


£32  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

ft  j°y  to  minister  once  more  to  my  darling  boy,  cost 
what  weariness  it  might. 

But  now  new  cares  are  at  hand,  and  I  have  been 
searching  for  a  person  to  whom  I  can  safely  trust 
my  children  when  I  am  laid  aside.  Thus  far  I  have 
had,  in  this  capacity,  three  different  Temptations  in 
human  form. 

The  first,  a  smart,  tidy-looking  woman,  informed 
me  at  the  outset  that  she  was  perfectly  competent 
lo  take  the  whole  charge  of  the  children,  and  should 
prefer  my  attending  to  my  own  affairs  while  she  at 
tended  to  hers. 

I  replied  that  my  affairs  lay  chiefly  in  caring  for 
and  being  with  my  children ;  to  which  she  returned 
that  she  feared  I  should  not  suit  her,  as  she  had  her 
own  views  concerning  the  training  of  children.  She 
added,  with  condescension,  that  at  all  events  she 
should  expect  in  any  case  of  difference  (of  judgment) 
between  us,  that  I,  being  the  younger  and  least  ex 
perienced  of  the  two,  should  always  yield  to  her. 
She  then  went  on  to  give  me  her  views  on  the  sub 
ject  of  nursery  management. 

"In  the  first  place,"  she  said,  "I  never  pet  or 
fondle  children.  It  makes  them  babyish  and  sickly. n 

"Oh,  I  see  you  will  not  suit  me,"  I  cried.  "Ycu 
need  go  no  farther.  I  consider  love  the  best  edu 
cator  for  a  little  child." 

"Indeed,  I  think  I  shall  suit  you  perfectly,"  sh% 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  333 

replied,  nothing  daunted.  "  I  have  been  in  the  busi 
ness  twenty  years,  and  have  always  suited  where- 
ever  I  lived.  You  will  be  surprised  to  see  how 
much  sewing  I  shall  accomplish,  and  how  quiet  I 
shall  keep  the  children." 

"But  I  don't  want  them  kept  quiet,"  I  persisted. 
"  I  want  them  to  be  as  merry  and  cheerful  as  crick 
ets,  and  I  care  a  great  deal  more  to  have  them 
amused  than  to  have  the  sewing  done,  though  that 
is  important,  I  confess." 

"Very  well,  ma'am,  I  will  sit  and  rock  them  by 
the  hour  if  you  wish  it." 

"  But  I  don't  wish  it,"  I  cried,  exasperated  at  the 
coolness  which  gave  her  such  an  advantage  over 
me.  "Let  us  say  no  more  about  it;  you  do  not 
suit  me,  and  the  sooner  we  part  the  better.  I  must 
be  mistress  of  my  own  house,  and  I  want  no  advice 
in  relation  to  my  children." 

"I  shall  hardly  leave  you  before  you  will  regret 
parting  with  me,"  she  returned  in  a  placid,  pitying 
way.  ^ 

I  was  afraid  I  had  not  been  quite  dignified  in  niy 
interview  with  this  person,  with  whom  I  ought  to 
have  had  no  discussion,  and  my  equanimity  was 
not  restored  by  her  shaking  hands  with  me  in  a 
patronizing  way  at  parting,  and  expressing  the  hope 
that  I  should  one  day  "  be  a  green  tree  in  the  Para 
dise  of  God  Nor  was  it  any  too  great  a  con  sola- 


334  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

tion  to  find,  that  she  had  suggested  to  my  cook  thai 
my  intellect  was  not  quite  sound. 

Temptation  the  second,  confessed  that  she  knew 
nothing,  but  was  willing  to  be  taught.  Yes,  she 
might  be  willing,  but  she  could  not  be  taught  She 
could  not  see  why  Herbert  should  not  have  every 
thing  he  chose  to  cry  for,  nor  why  she  should  not 
take  the  children  to  the  kitchens  where  her  friends 
abode,  instead  of  keeping  them  out  in  the  air.  She 
could  not  understand  why  she  must  not  tell  Una 
every  half  hour  that  she  was  as  fair  as  a  lily,  and 
that  the  little  angels  in  heaven  cried  for  such  hair 
as  hers.  And  there  was  no  rhyme  or  reason,  to  her 
mind,  why  she  could  not  have  her  friends  visit  in 
her  nursery,  since,  as  she  declared,  the  cook  would 
hear  all  her  secrets  if  she  received  them  in  the 
kitchen.  Her  assurance  that  she  thought  me  a  very 
nice  lady,  and  that  there  never  were  two  such 
children  as  mine,  failed  to  move  my  hard  heart, 
and  I  was  thankful  when  I  got  her  out  of  the 
house. 

Temptation  the  third,  appeared,  for  a  time  the 
perfection  of  a  nurse.  She  kept  herself  and  the  nur 
sery  and  the  children  in  most  refreshing  order;  she 
amused  Una  when  she  was  more  than  usually  un^ 
well,  with  a  perfect  fund  of  innocent  stories;  the 
work  flew  from  her  nimble  fingers  as  if  by  magic. 
[  boasted  everywhere  of  my  good  luck,  and  sang 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  335 

her  praises  in  Ernest's  ears  till  he  believed  in  hei 
with  all  his  heart.  But  one  night  we  were  out  late ; 
we  had  been  spending  the  evening  at  aunty's,  and 
came  in  with  Ernest's  night  key  as  quietly  as  pos 
sible,  in  order  not  to  arouse  the  children.  I  stole 
softly  to  the  nursery,  to  see  if  all  was  going  on  well 
th ore.  Bridget,  it  seems,  had  taken  the  opportunity 
to  wash  her  clothes  in  the  nursery,  and  they  hung 
all  about  the  room  drying,  a  hot  fire  raging  for  the 
purpose.  In  the  midst  of  them,  with  a  candle  and 
prayer  book  on  a  chair,  Bridget  knelt  fast  asleep; 
the  candle  within  an  inch  of  her  sleeve.  Her  assur 
ance  when  I  aroused  her  that  she  was  not  asleep, 
but  merely  rapt  in  devotion,  did  not  soften  my  hard 
heart,  nor  was  I  moved  by  the  representation  that 
she  was  a  saint,  and  always  wore  black  on  that  ac 
count.  I  packed  her  off  in  anything  but  a  saintly 
frame,  and  felt  that  a  fourth  Temptation  would  scat 
ter  what  little  grace  I  possessed  to  the  four  winds 
These  changes  up-stairs  made  discord,  too,  below. 
My  cook  was  displeased  at  so  much  coming  and 
going,  and  made  the  kitchen  a  sort  of  a  purgatory 
which  I  dreaded  to  enter.  At  last,  when  her  tem 
per  fairly  ran  away  with  her,  and  she  became  im 
pertinent  to  the  last  degree,  I  said,  coolly, 

"  If  any  lady  should  speak  to  me  in  this  way  1 
should  resent  it.  But  no  lady  would  so  far  forget 
herself.  And  I  overlook  your  rudeness  on  the 


33<j  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

ground  that  you  do  not  know  better  than  to  mak« 
use  of  such  expressions." 

This  capped  the  climax !  She  declared  that  she 
had  never  been  told  before  that  she  was  no  lady  and 
did  not  know  how  to  behave,  and  gave  warning  at 
on  co. 

I  wish  I  could  help  running  to  tell  Ernest  all 
these  annoyances.  It  does  no  good,  and  only  wor 
ries  him.  But  how  much  of  a  woman's  life  is  made 
up  of  such  trials  and  provocations!  and  how  easy 
it  is  when  on  one's  knees  to  bear  them  aright,  and 
how  far  easier  to  bear  them  wrong  when  one  finds 
the  coal  going  too  fast,  the  butter  out  just  as  one  is 
sitting  down  to  breakfast,  the  potatoes  watery,  and 
the  bread  sour,  or  heavy !  And  then  when  one  is 
well  nigh  desperate,  does  one's  husband  fail  to  say, 
in  bland  tones, 

"My  dear,  if  you  would  just  speak  to  Bridget,  I 
am  sure  she  would  improve ! " 

Oh,  that  there  were  indeed  magic  in  a  spoken 
word! 

And  do  what  I  can,  the  money  Ernest  gives  mo 
will  not  hold  out.  He  knows  absolutely  nothing 
about  that  hydra-headed  monster,  a  household.  1 
have  had  to  go  back  to  sewing  as  furiously  as  ever. 
And  with  the  sewing  the  old  pain  in  the  side  has 
come  back,  and  the  sharp,  quick  speech  that  I  hate, 
»nd  that  Ernest  ha^es,  and  that  everybody  hates.  I 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  337 

groan,  being  Durdened,  and  am  almost  weary  of  my 
life.  And  my  prayers  are  all  mixed  up  with  worldly 
thoughts  and  cares.  I  am  appalled  at  all  the  things 
that  have  got  to  be  done  before  winter,  and  am 
tempted  to  cut  short  my  devotions  in  order  to  have 
more  time  to  accomplish  what  I  must  accomplish. 

How  have  I  got  into  this  slough  ?  When  was  it 
that  I  came  down  from  the  Mount  where  I  had  seen 
the  Lord,  and  came  back  to  make  these  miserable, 
petty  things  as  much  my  business  as  ever  ?  Oh, 
these  fluctuations  in  my  religious  life  amaze  me !  1 
cannot  doubt  that  I  am  really  God's  child;  it  would 
be  a  dishonor  to  Him  to  doubt  it.  I  cannot  doubt 
that  I  have  held  as  real  communion  with  Him  as 
with  any  earthly  friend — and  oh,  it  has  been  far 
sweeter ! 

OCT.   20. — I   made   a  parting  visit   to  Mrs. 

Campbell  to-day,  and,  as  usual,  have  come  away 
strengthened  and  refreshed.  She  said  all  sorts  of 
kind  things  to  cheer  and  encourage  me,  and  stimu 
lated  me  to  take  up  the  burden  of  life  cheerfully 
and  patiently,  just  as  it  comes.  She  assures  me 
that  these  fluctuations  of  feeling  will  by  degreei 
give  place  to  a  calmer  life,  especially  if  I  avoid,  so 
far  as  1  can  do  it,  all  unnecessary  work,  distraction 
and  hurry.  And  a  few  quiet,  resting  words  from 
her  have  given  me  courage  to  press  on  toward  per- 
15 


338  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

faction,  no  matter  how  much  imperfection  I  see  in 
myself  and  others.  And  now  I  am  waiting  for  my 
Fathers  next  gift,  and  the  new  cares  and  labors  it 
will  bring  with  it.  I  am  glad  it  is  not  left  to  me  to 
decide  my  own  lot.  I  am  afraid  I  should  never  see 
precisely  the  right  moment  for  welcoming  a  new 
bird  into  my  nest,  dearly  as  I  love  the  rustle  of 
their  wings  and  the  sound  of  their  voices  when 
they  do  come.  And  surely  He  knows  the  right 
moments  who  knows  all  my  struggles  with  a  certain 
sort  of  poverty,  poor  health  and  domestic  care.  If 
I  could  feel  that  all  the  time,  as  I  do  at  this  mo 
ment,  how  happy  I  should  always  be  ! 

JANUARY  16,  1847. — This  is  the  tenth  anni 
versary  of  our  wedding-day,  and  it  has  been  a  de 
lightful  one.  If  I  were  called  upon  to  declare  w1  at 
has  been  the  chiei  element  of  my  happiness,  I  should 
say  it  was  not  Ernest's  love  to  me  or  mine  to  him, 
or  that  I  am  once  more  the  mother  of  three  chil 
dren,  or  that  my  own  dear  mother  still  lives,  though 
I  revel  in  each  and  all  of  these.  But  underneath 
them  all,  deeper,  stronger  than  all,  lies  a  peace  with 
God  that  I  can  compare  to  no  other  joy,  which  I 
guard  as  I  would  guard  hid  treasure,  and  which 
must  abide  if  all  things  else  pass  away. 

My  baby  is  two  months  old,  and  her  name  is 
Ethel  The  three  children  together  form  a  bivniti- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  339 

ful  picture  which  I  am  never  tired  of  admiring 
But  they  will  not  give  me  much  time  for  writing 
This  little  new-comer  takes  all  there  is  of  me. 
Mother  brings  me  pleasant  reports  of  Miss  Clifford, 
who,  under  her  gentle,  wise  influence  is  becoming 
an  earnest  Christian,  already  rejoicing  in  the  Provi. 
dence  that  arrested  her  where  it  did,  and  forced 
her  to  reflection.  Mother  says  we  ought  to  study 
God's  providence  more  than  we  do,  since  He  has 
a  meaning  and  a  purpose  in  everything  He  does. 
Sometimes  I  can  do  this  and  find  it  a  source  of  great 
happiness.  Then  worldly  cares  seem  mere  worldly 
cares,  and  I  forget  that  His  wise,  kind  hand  is  in 
every  one  of  them. 

* 

FEBRUARY. — Helen    has    been    spending    the 

whole  day  with  me,  as  she  often  does,  helping  me 
with  her  skillful  needle,  and  with  the  children,  in  a 
very  sweet  way.  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  indulge 
in  writing  down  how  dearly  she  seems  to  love  me, 
and  how  disposed  she  is  to  sit  at  my  feet  as  a  learn 
er  at  the  very  moment  I  am  longing  to  possess  lief 
eweet,  gentle  temper.  But  one  thing  puzzles  me  in 
her,  and  that  is  the  difficulty  she  finds  in  getting 
hold  of  these  simple  truths  her  father  used  to  grope 
after  but  never  found  till  just  as  he  was  passing  out 
of  the  world.  It  seem  as  if  God  compensated 
such  turbulent,  fiery  natures  as  mine  by  revealing 


340  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

dim  self  to  them,  for  the  terrible  hours  of  shame  and 
sorrow  through  which  their  sins  and  follies  cause 
them  to  pass.  I  suffer  far  more  than  Helen  does, 
suffer  bitterly,  painfully,  but  I  enjoy  tenfold  more 
For  I  know  whom  I  have  believed,  and  I  cannot 
doubt  that  I  am  truly  united  to  Him.  Helen  is  na 
turally  very  reserved,  but  by  degrees  she  has  come 
to  talk  with  me  quite  frankly.  To-day  as  we  sat 
together  in  the  nursery,  little  Raymond  snatched  a 
toy  from  Una,  who,  as  usual,  yielded  to  him  with 
out  a  frown.  I  called  him  to  me;  he  came  reluct 
antly. 

"Raymond,  dear,"  I  said,  "did  you  ever  see  papa 
snatch  anything  from  me?" 

He  smiled,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Well  then,  until  you  see  him  do  it  to  me,  nevei 
do  it  to  your  sister.  Men  are  gentle  and  polite  tc 
women,  and  little  boys  should  be  gentle  and  polite 
fco  little  girls. 

The  children  ran  off  to  their  play,  and  'Helen 
•aid, 

"Now  how  different  that  is  from  my  mother's 
management  with  us!  She  always  made  us  girls 
yield  to  the  boys.  They  would  not  have  thought 
they  could  go  up  to  bed  unless  one  of  us  got  a 
candle  for  them." 

"That,  I  suppose,  is  the  reason  then  that  Ernest 
expected  me  to  wait  upon  him  after  we  were  mar- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  341 

ried,"  I  replied.  "  I  was  a  little  stiff  about  yielding 
to  him,  for  besides  mother's  precepts,  I  was  in 
fluenced  by  my  father's  example.  He  was  so  cour 
teous,  treating  her  with  as  much  respect  as  it'  she 
were  a  queen,  and  yet  with  as  much  love  as  if  she 
were  always  a  girl.  I  naturally  expected  the  like 
from  my  husband. 

"You  must  have  been  disappointed  then,"  she 
said. 

"  Yes,  I  was.  It  cost  me  a  good  many  pouts  and 
tears  of  which  I  am  now  ashamed.  And  Ernest 
seldom  annoys  me  now  with  the  little  neglects  that 
I  used  to  make  so  much  of." 

"  Sometimes  I  think  there  are  no  '  little '  neglects," 
said  Helen.  "  It  takes  less  than  nothing  to  annoy 
us." 

"And  it  takes  more  than  everything  to  please 
us!"  I  cried.  "But  Ernest  and  I  had  one  strong 
hold  to  which  we  always  fled  in  our  troublous 
times,  and  that  was  our  love  for  each  other.  No 
matter  how  he  provoked  me  by  his  little  heedless 
ways,  I  had  to  forgive  him  because  I  loved  him  so. 
And  he  had  to  forgive  me  my  faults  for  the  same 
reason." 

"I  had  no  idea  husbands  and  wives  loved  oach 
other  so,"  said  Helen.  "  I  thought  they  got  over  it 
as  soon  as  their  cares  and  troubles  came  on,  and 
just  jogged  on  together,  somehow." 


342  S-JEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 


both  laughed  and  she  went  on. 

"If  I  thought  I  should  be  as  happy  as  you  are,  I 
should  be  tempted  to  be  married  myself." 

"  Ah,  I  thought  your  time  would  come  !  "  I  cried 

"Don't  ask  me  any  questions,"  she  said,  her 
pretty  face  growing  prettier  with  a  bright,  warm 
glow.  "Give  me  advice  instead;  for  instance,  tell 
me  how  I  can  be  sure  that  if  I  love  a  man  I  shall 
go  on  loving  him  through  all  the  wear  and  tear  of 
married  life,  and  how  can  I  be  sure  he  can  and  will 
go  on  loving  me?" 

"  Well,  then,  setting  aside  the  fact  that  you  aro 
both  lovable  and  loving,  I  will  say  this:  Happi 
ness,  in  other  words  love,  in  married  life  is  not  a 
mere  accident.  When  the  union  has  been  formed, 
as  most  Christian  unions  are,  by  God  Himself,  it  is 
His  intention  and  His  will  that  it  shall  prove  the 
unspeakable  joy  of  both  husband  and  wife,  and  be 
come  more  and  more  so  from  year  to  year.  But 
we  are  imperfect  creatures,  wayward  and  foolish  as 
little  children,  horribly  unreasonable,  selfish  and 
willful.  We  are  not  capable  of  enduring  the  shock 
of  finding  at  every  turn,  that  our  idol  is  made  of 
clay,  and  that  it  is  prone  to  tumble  off  its  pedestal 
and  lie  in  the  dust,  till  we  pick  it  up  and  set  it  in  its 
place  again.  I  was  struck  with  Ernest's  asking  in 
the  very  first  prayer  he  offered  in  my  presence, 
after  our  marriage,  that  God  would  help  us  love 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  343 

each  other;  I  felt  that  love  was  the  very  foundation 
on  which  I  was  built,  and  that  there  was  no  dangei 
that  I  should  ever  fall  short  in  giving  to  my  hus 
band  all  he  wanted,  in  full  measure.  But  as  he 
went  on  day  after  day  repeating  this  prayer,  and  I 
naturally  made  it  with  him,  I  came  to  see  that  this 
most  precious  of  earthly  blessings  had  been  arid 
must  be  God's  gift,  and  that  while  we  both  looked 
at  it  in  that  light,  and  felt  our  dependence  on  Him 
for  it,  we  might  safely  encounter  together  all  the 
assaults  made  upon  us  by  the  world,  the  flesh,  and 
the  devil.  I  believe  we  owe  it  to  this  constant 
prayer  that  we  have  loved  each  other  so  uniformly 
and  with  such  growing  comfort  in  each  other;  so 
that  our  little  discords  always  have  ended  in  fresh 
accord,  and  our  love  has  felt  conscious  of  resting 
on  a  rook — and  that  that  rock  was  the  will  of 
God." 

"It  is  plain,  then,"  said  Helen,  "that  you  and 
Ernest  are  sure  of  one  source  of  happiness  as  long 
as  you  live,  whatever  vicissitudes  you  may  meet 
with.  I  thank  you  so  much  for  what  you  have 
said.  The  fact  is  you  have  been  brought  up  to 
carry  religion  into  everything.  But  I  was  not. 
My  mother  was  as  good  as  she  was  lovely,  but  I 
think  she  felt,  and  taught  us  to  feel,  that  we  were 
to  put  it  on  as  we  did  our  Sunday  clothes,  and  to 
wear  it,  as  we  did  them,  carefully  and  reverently 


544  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

but  with  pretty  long,  grave  faces.  But  you  mix 
everything  up  so,  that  when  I  am  with  you  I  never 
know  whether  you  are  most  like  or  most  unlike 
other  people.  And  your  mother  is  just  so." 

"But  you  forget  that  it  is  to  Ernest  I  owe  my 
Lest  ideas  about  married  life;  I  don't  remember 
ever  talking  with  my  mother  or  any  one  else  on 
the  subject.  And  as  to  carrying  religion  into  every 
thing,  how  can  one  help  it  if  one's  religion  is  a  vital 
part  of  one's  self,  not  a  cloak  put  on  to  go  to  church 
in  and  hang  up  out  of  the  way  against  next  Sunday?" 

Helen  laughed.  She  has  the  merriest,  yet  gentlest 
little  laugh  one  can  imagine.  I  long  to  know  who 
it  is  that  has  been  so  fortunate  as  to  touch  her  heart ! 

MARCH.  —  I    know    now,    and    glad    I    am! 

The  sly  little  puss  is  purring  at  this  moment  in 
James'  arms;  at  least  I  suppose  she  is,  as  I  have 
discreetly  come  up  to  my  room  and  left  them  to 
themselves.  So  it  seems  I  have  had  all  these  wor 
ries  about  Lucy  for  naught.  What  made  her  so 
fond  of  James  was  simply  the  fact  that  a  friend  of 
his  had  looked  on  her  with  a  favorable  eye,  regard 
ing  her  as  a  very  proper  mother  for  four  or  five 
children  who  are  in  need  of  a  shepherd.  Yes, 
Lucy  is  going  to  marry  a  man  so  much  older  than 
herself,  that  on  a  pinch  he  might  have  been  he» 
father.  She  does  it  from  a  sense  of  duty,  she 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  34f 

aui  to  a  nature  like  hers  duty  may  perhaps  suffice, 
and  no  cry  of  the  heart  have  to  be  stifled  in  its  per 
formance.  We  are  all  so  happy  in  the  happiness 
of  James  and  Helen  that  we  are  not  in  the  mood 
to  criticise  Lucy's  decision.  1  have  a  strange  and 
most  absurd  envy  when  I  think  what  a  good  time 
they  are  having  at  this  moment  down  stairs,  while 
I  sit  here  alone,  vainly  wishing  I  could  see  more  of 
Ernest.  Just  as  if  my  happiness  were  not  a  deeper, 
more  blessed  one  than  theirs,  which  must  be  purged 
of  much  dross  before  it  will  prove  itself  to  be  like 
fine  gold.  Yes,  I  suppose  I  am  as  happy  in  my 
dear,  precious  husband  and  children  as  a  wife  and 
mother  can  be  in  a  fallen  world,  which  must  not  be 
a  real  heaven  lest  we  should  love  the  land  we 
journey  through  so  well  as  to  want  to  pitch  our 
tents  in  it  forever,  and  cease  to  look  and  long  for  the 
home  whither  we  are  bound. 

James  will  be  married  almost  immediately,  I  sup 
pose,  as  he  sails  for  Syria  early  in  April.  How 
much  a  missionary  and  his  wife  must  be  to  each 
other,  when,  severing  themselves  from  all  they 
ever  loved  before,  they  go  forth,  hand  in  hand,  not 
merely  to  be  foreigners  in  heathen  lands,  but  to  be 
henceforth  strangers  in  their  own  should  they  ever 
return  to  it! 

Helen  says,  playfully,  that  she  has  not  a  mission 
ary  spirit,  and  is  not  at  all  sure  that  she  shall  go  witb 


346  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

James.  But  I  don't  think  that  he  feels  very  anxioui 
on  that  point! 

MARCH. — It   does   one's    heart   good   to    see 

how  happy  they  are!  Arid  it  does  one's  heart 
good  to  have  one's  husband  set  up  an  opposition 
ko  the  goings  on  by  behaving  like  a  lover  hiiaselt. 


XXIII. 


JANUAET  1,  1851. 

T  is  a  great  while  since  I  wrote  that.  "  God 
has  been  just  as  good  as  ever ; "  I  want  to 
say  that  before  I  say  another  word.  But 
he  has  indeed  smitten  me  very  sorely. 
While  we  were  in  the  midst  of  our  rejoicings 
about  James  and  Helen,  and  the  bright  future  that 
seemed  opening  before  them,  he  came  home  one  day 
very  ill.  Ernest  happened  to  be  in  and  attended  to 
him  at  once.  But  the  disease  was,  at  the  very  out 
set,  so  violent,  and  raged  with  such  absolute  fury, 
that  no  remedies  had  any  effect.  Everything,  even 
QOW,  seems  confused  in  my  mind.  It  seems  as  if  there 
was  a  sudden  transition  from  the  most  brilliant,  joy- 
ous  health,  to  a  brief  but  fearful  struggle  for  life, 
speedily  followed  by  the  awful  mystery  and  stillness 
of  death.  Is  it  possible,  I  still  ask  myself,  that  four 
short  days  wrought  an  event  whose  consequences 
must  rua  through  endless  years?  —  Poor  mother! 
Poor  Helen  ! — When  it  was  all  over,  I  do  not  kr.ow 


848  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

what  to  say  of  mother  but  that  she  behaved  and 
quieted  herself  like  a  weaned  child.  Her  sweet 
composure  awed  me;  I  dared  not  give  way  to  my 
own  vehement,  terrible  sorrow;  in  the  presence 
of  this  Christ-like  patience,  all  noisy  demonstra 
tions  seemed  profane.  I  thought  no  human  being 
was  less  selfish,  more  loving  than  she  had  been  for 
many  years  but  the  spirit  that  now  took  possession 
of  her  flowed  into  her  heart  and  life  directly  from 
that  great  Heart  of  love,  whose  depths  I  had  never 
even  begun  to  sound.  There  was,  therefore,  some 
thing  absolutely  divine  in  her  aspect,  in  the  tones  of 
her  voice,  in  the  very  smile  on  her  face.  We  could 
compare  its  expression  to  nothing  but  Stephen, 
when  he,  being  full  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  looked  up 
steadfastly  to  heaven  and  saw  the  Glory  of  God,  and 
Jesus  standing  on  the  right  hand  of  God.  As  soon 
as  James  was  gone  Helen  came  to  our  home;  there 
was  never  any  discussion  about  it,  she  came  na 
turally  to  be  one  of  us.  Mother's  health,  already 
very  frail,  gradually  failed,  and  encompassed  as  1 
was  with  cares,  I  could  not  be  with  her  constantly. 
Helen  took  the  place  to  her  of  a  daughter,  and 
found  herself  welcomed  like  one.  The  atmosphere 
in  which  we  all  lived  was  one  which  cannot  be  de 
scribed;  the  love  for  all  of  us  and  for  every  living 
thing  that  flowed  in  mother's  words  and  tones  passed 
all  knowledge.  The  children's  little  joys  and  sor 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  349 

rows  interested  her  exactly  as  if  she  was  one  of 
themselves ;  they  ran  to  her  with  every  petty  griev 
ance,  and  every  new  pleasure.  During  the  time  she 
lived  with  us  she  had  won  many  warm  friends,  par 
ticularly  among  the  poor  and  the  suffering.  As  her 
strength  would  no  longer  allow  her  to  go  to  them, 
those  who  could  do  so,  came  to  her,  and  1  was 
struck  to  see  she  had  ceased  entirely  from  giving 
counsel,  and  now  gave  nothing  but  the  most  beauti 
ful,  tender  compassion  and  sympathy.  I  saw  that 
she  was  failing,  but  flattered  myself  that  her  own 
serenity  and  our  care  would  prolong  her  life  still  for 
many  years.  I  longed  to  have  my  children  become 
old  enough  to  fully  appreciate  her  sanctified  cha 
racter;  and  I  thought  she  would  gradually  fade 
away  and  be  set  free, 

As  light  winds  wandering  through  groves  of  bloom, 
Detach  the  delicate  blossoms  from  the  tree. 

But  God's  thoughts  are  not  as  our  thoughts,  nor 
His  ways  as  our  ways.  Her  feeble  body  began  to 
suffer  from  the  rudest  assaults  of  pain;  day  and 
night,  night  and  day,  she  lived  through  a  martyr 
dom  in  which  what  might  have  been  a  life-time  of 
suffering  was  concentrated  into  a  few  months.  To 
witness  these  sufferings  was  like  the  sundering  of 
joints  and  marrow,  and  once,  only  once,  thank  God  1 
my  faith  in  Him  staggered  and  reeled  to  and  fro 


350  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"How  caw  He  look  down  on  such  agonies !"  I  cried 
in  my  secret  soul — "Is  this  the  work  of  a  God  of 
love,  of  mercy  ? "  Mother  seemed  to  divine  my 
thoughts,  for  she  took  my  hand  tenderly  in  hers, 
and  said,  with  great  difficulty: 

"Though  Fe  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him. 
fie  is  just  as  good  as  ever."  And  she  smiled.  I 
ran  away  to  Ernest,  crying  "  Oh,  is  there  nothing 
you  can  do  for  her?" 

"  What  should  a  poor  mortal  do  where  Christ  has 
done  so  much,  my  darling?"  he  said,  taking  me  in 
his  arms.  "Let  us  stand  aside  and  see  the  glory 
of  God,  with  our  shoes  from  off  our  feet."  But  he 
went  to  her  with  one  more  desperate  effort  to  re 
lieve  her,  yet  in  vain. 

Mrs.  Embury,  of  whom  mother  was  fond,  and 
who  is  always  very  kind  when  we  are  in  trouble, 
came  in  just  then,  and  after  looking  on  a  moment  in 
tears,  she  said  to  me: 

'•God  knows  whom  He  can  trust!  H»  would 
not  lay  His  hand  thus  on  all  His  children. ' 

Those  few  words  quieted  me.  Yes,  God  knows. 
And  now  it  is  all  over.  My  precious,  ^vecious 
mother  has  been  a  saint  in  heaven  more  tl  NU  two 
years,  and  has  forgotten  all  the  battles  she  fought 
on  earth,  and  all  her  sorrows  and  all  her  sutfeiinga 
in  the  presence  of  her  Redeemer.  She  kneu  that 
she  was  going,  and  the  last  words  she  uttered — and 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  351 

they  were  spoken  with  somewhat  of  the  playful 
quaint  manner  in  which  she  had  spoken  all  her  life, 
and  with  her  own  bright  smile — still  sound  in  my  eais, 

"I  have  given  God  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  bul 
fie  is  driving  me  into  pasture  now ! " 

And  then,  with  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  she  fell 
asleep,  and  slept  on,  till  just  at  sundown  she  awoke 
to  find  herself  in  the  green  pasture,  the  driving  all 
over  for  ever  and  ever. 

Who  by  searching  can  find  out  God?  My  dear 
father  entered  heaven  after  a  prosperous  life,  by  a 
path  wherein  he  was  unconscious  of  a  pang,  and 
our  beloved  James,  went  bright  and  fresh  and  un 
tarnished  by  conflict,  straight  to  the  Master's  feast. 
But  what  a  long  life-time  of  bereavement,  sorrow 
and  suffering,  was  my  darling  mother's  pathway  to 
glory!  Surely  her  felicity  must  be  greater  than 
theirs,  and  the  crown  she  has  won  by  such  a  strug 
gle  must  be  brighter  than  the  stars?  And  thia 
crown  she  is  even  now,  while  I  sit  here  choked  with 
tears,  casting  joyfully  at  the  feet  of  her  Saviour ! 

My  sweet  sister,  my  precious  little  Helen,  still 
nestles  in  our  hearts  and  in  our  home.  Martha 
made  one  passionate  appeal  to  her  to  return  to  her 
but  Ernest  interfered: 

"Let  her  stay  with  Katy,"  he  said.  "James 
would  have  chosen  to  have  her  with  the  one  human 
being  like  himself" 


352  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

Doee  he  then  think  me,  with  all  mj  faults,  the 
Iftiiguor  of  frail  health,  and  the  cares  and  burdens 
of  life  weighing  i.pon  me,  enough  like  that  spark 
ling,  brave  boy  to  be  of  use  and  comfort  to  dear 
Helen?  I  take  courage  at  the  thought  and  rouso 
myself  afresh,  to  bear  on  with  fidelity  and  patience. 
My  steadfast  aim  now  is  to  follow  in  my  mother's 
footsteps;  to  imitate  her  cheerfulness,  her  benev 
olence,  her  bright,  inspiring  ways,  and  never  to 
rest  till  in  place  of  my  selfish  nature,  I  become  as 
full  of  Christ's  love  as  she  became.  I  am  glad  she 
is  at  last  relieved  from  the  knowledge  of  all  my 
cares,  and  though  I  often  and  often  yearn  to  throw 
myself  into  her  arms  and  pour  out  my  cares  and 
trials  into  her  sympathizing  ears,  I  would  not  have 
her  back  for  all  the  world.  She  has  got  away  from 
all  the  turmoil  and  suffering  of  life;  let  her  stay ! 

The  scenes  of  sorrow  through  which  we  have 
been  passing  have  brought  Ernest  nearer  to  me 
than  ever,  and  I  can  see  that  this  varied  discipline 
has  softened  and  sweetened  his  character.  Besides, 
we  have  modified  each  other.  Ernest  is  more  dem 
onstrative,  more  attentive  to  those  little  things  that 
make  the  happiness  of  married  life,  and  I  am  less 
childish,  less  vehement — I  wish  I  could  say  less  sel 
fish,  but  here  I  seem  to  have  come  to  a  standstill. 
But  I  do  understand  Ernest's  trials  in  his  profes 
sion,  far  better  than  I  did,  and  can  feel  and  sho\v 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  353 

some  sympathy  in  them.  Of  course  the  life  of  a 
physician  is  necessarily  one  of  self-denial,  spent  a? 
it  is  amid  scenes  of  suffering  and  sorrow,  which  he 
is  often  powerless  to  alleviate.  But  there  is  besides, 
the  wear  and  tear  of  years  of  poverty;  his  bills  are 
disputed  or  allowed  to  run  on  year  after  year  un 
noticed;  he  is  often  dismissed  because  he  cannot 
put  himself  in  the  place  of  Providence  and  save  life, 
and  a  truly  grateful,  generous  patient  is  almost  an 
unknown  rarity.  I  do  not  speak  of  these  things  to 
complain  of  them.  I  suppose  they  are  a  necessary 
part  of  that  whole  providential  plan  by  which  God 
molds  and  fashions  and  tempers  the  human  soul, 
just  as  my  petty,  but  incessant  household  cares  are. 
If  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  love  my  husband  and 
children  and  perform  for  them,  without  let  or  hind 
rance,  the  sweet  ideal  duties  of  wife  and  mother, 
how  content  I  should  be  to  live  always  in  thia 
world!  But  what  would  become  of  me  if  I  were 
not  called,  in  the  pursuit  of  these  duties  and  in  con 
tact  with  real  life,  to  bear  "restless  nights,  ill-health, 
unwelcome  news,  the  faults  of  servants,  contempt, 
ingratitude  of  friends,  my  own  failings,  lowness  of 
spirits,  the  struggle  in .  overcoming  my  corruption, 
and  a  score  of  kindred  trials ! " 

Bishop  Wilson  charges  us  to  bear  all  these  things 
44 as  unto  God,"  and  "with  the  greatest  privacy." 
How  seldom  I  have  met  them  save  as  lions  in  my 


354  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

way,  that  I  would  avoid  if  I  could,  and  how  I  hav« 
tormented  my  friends  by  tedious  complaints  about 
them!  Yet  when  compared  with  the  great  trage 
dies  of  suffering  I  have  both  witnessed  and  suf 
fered,  how  petty  they  seem ! 

Our  household,  bereft  of  mother's  and  James' 
bright  presence,  now  numbers  just  as  many  mem 
bers  as  it  did  before  they  left  us.  Another  angel 
has  flown  into  it,  though  not  on  wings,  and  I  have 
four  darling  children,  the  baby,  who  can  hardly  be 
called  a  baby  now,  being  nearly  two  years  old.  My 
hands  and  my  heart  are  full,  but  two  of  the  chil 
dren  go  to  school,  and  that  certainly  makes  my 
day's  work  easier.  ^ 

The  little  things  are  happier  for  having  regular 
employment,  and  we  are  so  glad  to  meet  each 
other  again  after  the  brief  separation !  I  try  to  be 
at  home  when  it  is  time  to  expect  them,  for  I 
love  to  hear  the  eager  voices  ask,  in  chorus,  the 
moment  the  door  opens:  "Is  mamma  at  home." 
Helen  has  taken  Daisy  to  sleep  with  her,  which  af 
ter  so  many  years  of  ups  and  downs  at  night,  now 
with  restless  babies,  now  to  answer  the  bell  when 
Ernest  is  out,  is  a  great  relief  to  me.  Poor  Helen ! 
She  has  never  recovered  her  cheerfulness  since 
James*  death.  It  has  crushed  her  energies  and  left 
her  very  sorrowful.  This  is  partly  owing  to  a  soft 
and  tender  nature,  easily  borne  down  and  over 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  355 

whelmed,  partly  to  what  seems  an  almost  constitu 
tional  ia ability  to  find  rest  in  God's  will.  She  as 
sents  to  all  wo  say  to  her  about  submission,  in  a 
p\veet,  gentle  way,  and  then  comes  the  invariable, 
mournful  wail,  "But  it  was  so  unexpected!  It 
came  so  suddenly!"  But  I  love  the  little  thing, 
and  her  affection  for  us  all  is  one  of  our  greatest 
comforts. 

Martha  is  greatly  absorbed  in  her  own  household, 
its  cares  and  its  pleasures.  She  brings  her  little 
Underhills  to  see  us  occasionally,  when  they  put 
•say  children  quite  out  of  countenance  by  their  con 
sciousness  of  the  fine  clothes  they  wear,  and  their 
knowledge  of  the  world.  Even  I  find  it  hard  not  to 
feel  abashed  in  the  presence  of  so  much  of  the  sort  of 
wisdom  in  which  I  am  lacking.  As  to  Lucy,  she  is 
exactly  in  her  sphere :  the  calm  dignity  with  which 
she  reigns  in  her  husband's  house,  and  the  modera 
tion  and  self-control  with  which  she  guides  his  chil 
dren,  are  really  instructive.  She  has  a  baby  of  her 
own,  and  though  it  acts  just  like  other  babies,  and 
kicks,  scratches,  pulls  and  cries  when  it  is  washed 
and  dressed,  she  goes  through  that  process  with  a* 
serenity  and  deliberation  that  I  envy  with  all  my 
might.  Her  predecessor  in  the  nursery  was  alJ 
nerve  and  brain,  and  has  left  four  children  made  of 
the  same  material  behind  her.  But  their  wild  spir 
its  on  one  day,  and  their  depression  and  languor  on 


356  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

the  next,  have  no  visible  effect  upon  her.  Her  in 
fluence  is  always  quieting;  she  tones  down  theii 
vehemence  with  her  own  calm  decision  and  ptacti- 
cal  good  sense.  It  is  amusing  to  see  her  seated 
among  those  four  little  furies,  who  love  each  other 
in  sucli  a  distracted  way  that  somebody's  feelings 
are  always  getting  hurt,  and  somebody  always  cry 
ing.  By  a  sort  of  magnetic  influence  she  heals 
these  wounds  immediately,  and  finds  some  prosaic 
occupation  as  an  antidote  to  these  poetical  moods. 
I  confess  that  I  am  instructed  and  reproved  when 
ever  I  go  to  see  her,  and  wish  I  were  more  like  her. 
But  there  is  no  use  in  trying  to  engraft  an  oppo 
site  nature  on  one's  own.  What  I  am,  that  I  must 
be,  except  as  God  changes  me  into  His  own  image. 
And  every  thing  brings  me  back  to  that,  as  my  su 
preme  desire.  I  see  more  and  more  that  I  must  be 
myself  what  I  want  my  children  to  be,  and  that  I 
cannot  make  myself  over  even  for  their  sakes. 
This  must  be  His  work,  and  I  wonder,  that  it  goea 
on  so  slowly;  that  all  the  disappointments,  sor 
rows,  sicknesses  I  have  passed  through,  have  left 
me  s^ill  selfish,  still  full  of  imperfections ! 

MARCH  5,  1852. — This  is  the  sixth  anniver 
sary  of  James'  death.  Thinking  it  all  over  after  I 
went  to  bed  last  night,  his  sickness,  his  death,  and 
the  weary  months  that  followed  for  mother,  I  could 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  357 

not  get  to  sleep  till  long  past  midnight.  Then  Una 
woke,  crying  with  the  ear-ache,  and  I  was  up  till 
nearly  day-break  with  her,  poor  child.  I  got  up 
jaded  and  depressed,  almost  ready  to  faint  undei 
the  burden  of  life,  and  dreading  to  meet  Helen, 
who  is  doubly  sad  on  these  anniversaries.  She 
came  down  to  breakfast  dressed  as  usual  in  deep 
mourning,  and  looking  as  spiritless  as  I  felt.  The> 
prattle  of  the  children  relieved  the  somber  silence 
maintained  by  the  rest  of  us,  each  of  whom  acted 
depressingly  on  the  others.  How  things  do  flash 
into  one's  mind !  These  words  suddenly  came  to 
mine,  as  we  sat  so  gloomily  at  the  table  God  had 
spread  for  us,  and  which  He  had  enlivened  by  the 
four  young  faces  around  it — 

Why  should  the  children  of  a  King 
Go  mourning  all  their  days? 

Why,  indeed?  Children  of  a  King!  I  felt 
grieved  that  I  was  so  intent  on  my  own  sorrows  as 
to  lose  sight  of  my  relationship  to  Him.  And  then 
I  asked  myself  what  I  could  do  to  make  the  day 
lees  wearisome  and  sorrowful  to  Helen.  She  came, 
after  a  time,  with  her  work  to  my  room.  The  chil 
dren  took  their  good-by  kisses  and  went  off  to 
school;  Ernest  took  his,  too,  and  set  forth  on  his 
day's  work,  while  Daisy  played  quietly  about  the 
room. 


358  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"Helen,  dear,"  I  ventured  at  last  to  begin,  "1 
want  yov  to  do  me  a  favor  to-day." 

"Yes,'   she  said,  languidly. 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  see  Mrs.  Campbell  This 
is  the  day  for  her  beef-tea,  and  she  will  be  looking 
out  for  one  of  us." 

"  You  must  not  ask  me  to  go  to-do,y"  Helen  ar 
swered. 

"I  think  I  must,  dear.  When  other  springs  oi 
comfort  dry  up,  there  is  one  always  left  to  us.  And 
that,  as  mother  often  said,  is  usefulness." 

"I  do  try  to  be  useful,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  you  are  very  kind  to  me  and  to  the  chil 
dren.  If  you  were  my  own  sister  you  could  not  do 
more.  But  these  little  duties  do  not  relieve  that 
aching  void  in  your  heart  which  yearns  so  for  relief." 

"No,"  she  said,  quickly,  "I  have  no  such  yearn 
ing.  I  just  want  to  settle  down  as  I  am  now." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  that  is  the  natural  tendency  of 
sorrow.  But  there  is  great  significance  in  the  pray 
er  for  'a  heart  at  leisure  from  itself,  to  soothe  and 
uyinpa^hize.'" 

"Oh,  Katy!"  she  said,  "you  don't  know,  you 
can't  know,  how  I  feel.  Until  James  began  to  love 
me  so  I  did  not  know  there  was  such  a  love  as  that 
in  the  world.  You  know  our  fan.ily  is  different 
from  yours.  And  it  is  so  delightful  to  be  loved 
Or  rather  it  was!" 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  35S 

" Don't  8ay  was"  I  said.  " You  know  we  all  love 
yon  dearly,  dearly. " 

"Yes,  but  not  as  James  did!" 

"  That  is  true.  It  was  foolish  in  me  to  expect  to 
console  you  by  such  suggestions.  But  to  go  back 
to  Mrs.  Campbell.  She  will  sympathize  with  you, 
if  you  will  let  her,  as  very  few  can,  for  she  has  lost 
both  husband  and  children." 

"Ah,  but  she  had  a  husband  for  a  time,  at  least. 
It  is  not  as  if  he  were  snatched  away  before  they 
had  lived  together." 

If  anybody  else  had  said  this  I  should  have  felt 
that  it  was  out  of  mere  perverseness.  But  dear  little 
Helen  is  not  perverse;  she  is  simply  overburdened. 

"I  grant  that  your  disappointment  was  greater 
than  hers,"  I  went  on.  "  But  the  affliction  was  not 
Every  day  that  a  husband  and  wife  walk  hand  in 
hand  together  upon  earth,  makes  of  the  twain  more 
and  more  one  flesh.  The  selfish  element  which  at 
first  formed  so  large  a  part  of  their  attraction  to  each 
other  disappears,  and  the  union  becomes  so  pure 
and  beautiful  as  to  form  a  fitting  type  of  the  union 
of  Christ  and  His  church.  There  is  nothing  else  on 
earth  like  it" 

Helen  sighed. 

"I  find  it  hard  to  believe,"  she  said,  "there  can 
be  anything  more  delicious  than  the  months  in 
which  James  and  I  were  so  happy  together." 


360  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"  Suffering  together  would  have  brought  you 
d^en  nearer,"  I  replied.  "Dear  Helen,  I  am  very 
sorry  for  you;  I  hope  you  feel  that,  even  when,  ac 
cording  to  my  want,  I  fall  into  arguments,  as  if  one 
could  argue  a  sorrow  away ! " 

"  You  are  so  happy,"  she  answered.  "  Ernest 
loves  you  so  dearly,  and  is  so  proud  of  you,  and 
you  have  such  lovely  children!  I  ought  not  to 
expect  you  to  sympathize  perfectly  with  my  loneli 
ness." 

"Yes,  I  am  happy,"  I  said,  after  a  pause;  "but 
you  must  own,  dear,  that  I  have  had  my  sorrows, 
too.  Until  you  become  a  mother  yourself,  you  can 
not  comprehend  what  a  mother  can  suffer,  not 
merely  for  herself,  in  losing  her  children,  but  in  see 
ing  their  sufferings.  I  think  I  may  say  of  my 
happiness  that  it  rests  on  something  higher  and 
deeper  than  even  Ernest  and  my  children." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

The  will  of  God,  the  sweet  will  of  God.  If  He 
should  take  them  all  away,  I  might  still  possess 
a  peace  which  would  flow  on  forever.  I  know  this 
partly  from  my  own  experience,  and  partly  from 
tliat  of  others.  Mrs.  Campbell  says  that  the  three 
months  that  followed  the  death  of  her  first  child, 
were  the  happiest  she  had  ever  known.  Mrs.  Went- 
worth,  whose  husband  was  snatched  from  her  al 
most  without  warning,  and  while  using  expressions 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  361 

of  affection  for  her  such  as  a  lover  addresses  to  his 
bride,  said  to  me,  with  tears  rolling  down  her 
cheeks,  yet  with  a  smile,  I  thank  my  God  and  Sa 
viour  that  He  has  not  f  jrgotten  and  passed  me  by, 
but  has  counted  me  worthy  to  bear  this  sorrow  for 
His  sake.'  And  hear  this  passago  from  the  life  of 
Wesley,  which  I  lighted  on  this  morning: 

"He  visited  one  of  his  disciples,  who  was  ill  in 
bed,  and  after  having  buried  seven  of  her  family  in 
six  months,  had  just  heard  that  the  eighth,  her  hus 
band,  whom  she  dearly  loved,  had  been  cast  away 
at  sea.  '  I  asked  her,'  he  says,  4  do  you  not  fret  at 
any  of  those  things  ? '  she  says,  with  a  lovely  smile, 
4  Oh,  no !  how  can  I  fret  at  anything  which  is  the 
will  of  God?  Let  Him  take  all  beside,  He  has  given 
me  Himself.  I  love,  I  praise  Him  every  moment. ' '' 

"Yes,"  Helen  objected,  "I  can  imagine  people  as 
saying  such  things  in  moments  of  excitement;  but 
afterwards,  they  have  hours  of  terrible  agony." 

"They  have  'hours  of  terrible  agony,'  of  course. 
God's  grace  does  not  harden  our  hearts,  and  make 
them  proof  against  suffering,  like  coats  of  mail. 
They  can  all  say,  *  Out  of  the  depths  have  I  cried 
unto  Thee,'  and  it  is  they  alone  who  have  been 
down  into  the  depths,  and  had  rich  experience  of 
what  God  could  be  to  His  children  there,  who  can 
utter  such  testimonials  to  His  honor,  as  those  .  have 
just  repeated." 


362  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"  Katy,"  Helec  suddenly  asked,  "  do  you  always 
submit  to  God's  will  thus?" 

"In  great  things  I  do,"  I  said.  "What  grieves 
me  is  that  I  am  constantly  forgetting  to  recognize 
God's  hand  in  the  little  e very-day  trials  of  life,  and 
instead  of  receiving  them  as  from  Him,  find  fault 
with  the  instruments  by  which  He  sends  them.  I 
can  give  up  my  child,  my  only  brother,  my  darling 
mother  without  a  word;  but  to  receive  every  tire 
some  visitor  as  sent  expressly  and  directly  to  weary 
me  by  the  Master  Himself;  to  meet  every  negli 
gence  on  the  part  of  the  servants  as  His  choice  for 
me  at  the  moment;  to  be  satisfied  and  patient  when 
Ernest  gets  particularly  absorbed  in  his  books,  be 
cause  my  Father  sees  that  little  discipline  suit 
able  for  me  at  the  time;  all  this  I  have  not  fully 
learned." 

"All  you  say  discourages  me,"  said  Helen,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  dejection.  "  Such  perfection  was  only 
meant  for  a  few  favored  ones,  and  I  do  not  dare  so 
much  as  to  aim  at  it.  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  1 
must  be  satisfied  with  the  low  state  of  grace  I  am  in 
now  and  always  have  been." 

She  was  about  to  leave  me,  but  I  caught  her 
hand  as  she  would  have  passed  me,  and  made  cno 
more  attempt  to  reach  her  poor,  weary  soul. 

"  But  are  you  satisfied,  dear  Helen  ? "  I  asked,  as 
tenderly  as  I  would  speak  to  a  little  snk  child 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  363 

"Surely  you  crave  happiness,  as  every  human  sou] 

does!" 

"  Yes,  I  crave  it,"  she  replied,  "  but  God  has  takoD 
it  from  me." 

"He  has  taken  away  your  earthly  happiness,  I 
know,  but  only  to  convince  you  what  better  things 
He  has  in  store  for  you.  Let  me  read  you  a  letter 
which  Dr.  Cabot  wrote  me  many  years  ago,  but 
which  has  been  an  almost  constant  inspiration  to  me 
ever  since." 

She  sat  down,  resumed  her  work  again,  and 
listened  to  the  letter  in  silence.  As  I  came  to  its 
last  sentence  the  three  children  rushed  in  from 
school,  at  least  the  boys  did,  and  threw  themselves 
upon  me  like  men  assaulting  a  fort.  I  have  formed 
the  habit  of  giving  myself  entirely  to  them  at  the 
proper  moment,  and  now  entered  into  their  frolic 
some  mood  as  joyously  as  if  I  had  never  known  a 
sorrow  or  lost  an  hour's  sleep.  At  last  they  went 
off  to  their  play-room,  and  Una  settled  down  by 
my  side  to  amuse  Daisy,  when  Helen  began  again. 

"I  should  like  to  read  that  letter  myself,"  she 
said,  "  Meanwhile  I  want  to  ask  you  one  question. 
What  are  you  made  of  that  you  can  turn  from  one 
thing  to  another  like  lightning?  Talking  one  mo 
ment  as  if  life  depended  on  your  every  word,  and 
then  frisking  about  with  those  wild  boys  as  if  you 
were  a  child  yourself?" 


364  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

I  saw  Una  look  up  curiously,  to  hear  my  answer, 
as  I  replied, 

"  I  have  always  aimed  at  this  flexibility.  I  think 
a  mother,  especially,  ought  to  learn  to  enter  into  the 
gayer  moods  of  her  children  at  the  very  moment 
when  her  own  heart  is  sad.  And  it  may  be  as  re 
ligious  an  act  for  her  to  romp  with  them  at  one 
time  as  to  pray  with  them  at  another." 

Helen  now  went  away  to  her  room  with  Dr. 
Cabot's  letter,  which  I  silently  prayed  might  bless 
her  as  it  had  blessed  me.  And  then  a  jaded,  dis 
heartened  mood  came  over  me  that  made  me  feel 
that  all  I  had  been  saying  to  her  was  but  as  sound 
ing  brass  and  a  tinkling  cymbal,  since  my  life  and 
my  professions  did  not  correspond.  Hitherto  my 
consciousness  of  imperfection  has  made  me  hesitate 
to  say  much  to  Helen.  Why  are  we  so  afraid  of 
those  who  live  under  the  same  roof  with  us?  It 
must  be  the  conviction  that  those  who  daily  see  us 
acting  in  a  petty,  selfish,  trifling  way,  must  find  it 
hard  to  conceive  that  our  prayers  and  our  desires 
take  a  wider  and  higher  aim.  Dear  little  Helen  I 
May  the  ice  once  broken  remain  broken  forever. 


XXIV. 


MABCH  20. 

ELEN  returned  Dr.  Cabot's  letter  in  silence 
this  morning,  but  directly  after  breakfast, 
set  forth  to  visit  Mrs.  Campbell,  with  the 
little  bottle  of  beef-tea  in  her  hands,  which 
ought  to  have  gone  yesterday.  I  had  a  busy  day 
before  me;  the  usual  Saturday  baking  and  Sunday 
dinner  to  oversee,  the  children's  lessons  for  to-mor 
row  to  superintend  and  hear  them  repeat,  their  clean 
clothes  to  lay  out,  and  a  basket  of  stockings  to 
mend.  My  mind  was  somewhat  distracted  with 
these  cares,  and  I  found  it  a  little  difficult  to  keep 
on  with  my  morning  devotions  in  spite  of  them. 
But  I  have  learned,  at  least,  to  face  and  fight  such 
distractions,  instead  of  running  away  from  them  as 
I  used  to  do.  My  faith  in  prayer,  my  resort  to  it, 
becomes  more  and  more  the  foundation  of  my  life, 
and  I  believe,  with  one  wiser  and  better  than  my 
self,  that  nothing  but  prayer  stands  between  my 
poul  and  the  best  gifts  of  God;  in  other  words,  thai 
I  can  and  shall  get  what  I  ask  for. 
(365) 


360  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

I  went  down  into  the  kitehen,  put  on  my  large 
baking-apron,  and  begar  my  labors;  of  course  the 
door-bell  rang,  and  a  pjor  woman  was  announced. 
It  is  very  sweet  to  follow  Fenelon's  counsel  and 
give  oneself  to  Christ  in  all  these  interruptions;  but 
this  time  I  said,  "Oh,  dear!"  before  I  thought.  Then 
I  wished  I  hadn't,  and  went  up,  with  a  cheerful  face, 
at  any  rate,  to  my  unwelcome  visitor,  who  proved 
to  be  one  of  my  aggravating  poor  folks;  a  great 
giant  of  a  woman,  in  perfect  health,  and  with  a  hus 
band  to  support  her,  if  he  will.  I  told  her  that  I 
could  do  no  more  for  her;  she  answered  me  rudely, 
and  kept  on  urging  her  claims.  I  felt  ruffled;  why 
should  my  time  be  thus  frittered  away,  I  asked  my 
self.  At  last  she  went  off,  abusing  me  in  a  way  that 
chilled  my  heart.  I  could  only  beg  God  to  forgive 
her,  and  return  to  my  work,  which  I  had  hardly 
resumed  when  Mrs.  Embury  sent  for  a  pattern  I 
had  promised  to  lend  her.  Off  came  my  apron, 
and  up  two  pairs  of  stairs  I  ran ;  after  a  long  search 
it  came  to  light.  Work  resumed;  door-bell  again. 
Aunty  wanted  the  children  to  come  to  an  early  din 
ner  Going  to  aunty's  is  next  to  going  to  Paradise 
to  them.  Everything  was  now  hurry  and  flurry;  I 
tried  to  be  patient,  and  not  to  fret  their  temper  by 
undue  attention  to  nails,  ears,  and  other  susceptible 
parts  of  the  human  frame,  but  after  it  was  all  over, 
and  I  had  kissed  all  the  sweet,  dear  faces  good-bye, 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  367 

and  returned  to  the  kitchen,  I  felt  sure  that  T  had 
not  been  the  perfect  mother  I  want  to  be  in  all  these 
little  emergencies — yes,  far  from  it.  Bridget  had 
let  the  milk  I  was  going  to  use  boil  over,  and  fin 
ally  burn  up.*  I  was  annoyed  and  irritated,  and  al 
ready  tired,  and  did  not  see  how  I  was  to  get  more, 
as  Mary  was  cleaning  the  silver  (to  be  sure,  there  is 
not  much  of  it !)  and  had  other  extra  Saturday  work 
to  do.  I  thought  Bridget  might  offer  to  run  to  the 
corner  for  it,  though  it  isn't  her  business,  but  she  is 
not  obliging,  and  seemed  as  sulky  as  if  I  had  burned 
the  milk,  not  phe.  "After  all,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"  what  does  it  signify,  if  Ernest  gets  no  dessert  ?  It 
isn't  good  for  him,  and  how  much  precious  time  is 
wasted  over  just  this  one  thing?  However,  I  re 
flected,  that  arbitrarily  refusing  to  indulge  him  in 
this  respect  is  not  exactly  my  mission  as  his  wife; 
he  is  perfectly  well,  and  likes  his  little  luxuries  as 
well  as  other  people  do.  So  I  humbled  my  pride 
and  asked  Bridget  to  go  for  the  milk,  which  she  did, 
in  a  lofty  way  of  her  own.  While  she  was  gone  the 
marketing  came  home,  and  I  had  everything  to  dis 
pose  of.  Ernest  had  sent  home  some  apples,  which 
plainly  said,  "  I  want  some  apple  pie,  Katy."  I 
looked  nervously  at  the  clock,  and  undertook  to 
gratify  him.  Mary  came  down,  crying,  to  say  that 
her  mother,  who  lived  in  Brooklyn,  was  very  aick; 
could  she  go  to  see  her  ?  1  looked  at  the  clock  once 


368  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

more;  told  her  she  should  go,  of  course,  as  soon  aa 
lunch  was  over;  this  involved  my  doing  all  her  ab- 
cence  left  undone. 

At  last  I  got  through  with  the  kitchen;  the  Sun 
day  dinner  being  well  under  way;  and  ran  up  tfcaira 
to  put  away  the  host  of  little  garments  the  children 
had  left  when  they  took  their  flight,  and  to  make 
myself  presentable  at  lunch.  Then  I  began  tc  be 
uneasy  lest  Ernest  should  not  be  punctual,  and 
Mary  be  delayed;  but  he  came  just  as  the  clock 
struck  one.  I  ran  joyfully  to  meet  him,  very  glad 
now  that  I  had  something  good  to  give  him.  We 
had  just  got  through  lunch,  and  I  was  opening  my 
mouth  to  tell  Mary  she  might  go,  when  the  door 
bell  rang  once  more,  and  Mrs.  Fry,  of  Jersey  City, 
was  announced.  I  told  Mary  to  wait  till  I  found 
whether  she  had  lunched  or  not;  no,  she  hadn't; 
had  come  to  town  to  see  friends  off,  was  half  fam 
ished,  and  would  I  do  her  the  favor,  etc.,  etc.  She 
had  a  fashionable  young  lady  with  her,  a  stranger 
to  me,  as  well  as  a  Miss  Somebody  else,  from  Al 
bany,  whose  name  I  did  not  catch.  I  apologized 
for  having  finished  lunch;  Mrs.  Fry  said  all  they 
wanted  was  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  bit  of  bread  and  but 
ter,  nothing  else,  dear;  now  don't  put  yourself 
out  I 

"  Now  be  bright  and  animated,  and  like  yourself,' 
ehe  whispered,  "for  I  Lave  brought  these  girls  here 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  369 

on  purpose  to  hear  you  talk,  and  they  are  prepared 
to  fall  in  love  with  you  on  the  spot." 

This  speech  sufficed  to  shut  my  mouth. 

Mary  had  to  get  ready  for  these  unexpected 
guests,  whose  appetites  proved  equal  to  a  raid  cm 
a  good  many  things  besides  bread  and  butter.  Mrs. 
Fry  said,  after  she  had  devoured  nearly  half  a  loaf 
of  cake,  that  she  would  really  try  to  eat  a  morsel 
more,  which  Ernest  remarked,  drily,  was  a  great 
triumph  of  mind  over  matter.  As  they  talked  and 
laughed  and  ate  leisurely  on,  Mary  stood  looking 
the  picture  of  despair.  At  last  I  gave  her  a  glance 
that  said  she  might  go,  when  a  new  visitor  was  an- 
nounced,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  from  Brooklyn,  one  of 
Ernest's  patients  a  few  years  ago,  when  she  lived 
here.  She  professed  herself  greatly  indebted  to 
him,  and  said  she  had  come  at  this  hour  because 
she  should  make  sure  of  seeing  him.  I  tried  to  ex 
cuse  him,  as  I  knew  he  would  be  thankful  to  have 
me  do,  but  no,  see  him  she  must;  he  was  her  "pet- 
doctor,"  he  had  such  "sweet,  bed-side  manners;"  and 
"  I  am  such  a  favorite  with  him,  you  know ! " 

Ernest  did  not  receive  his  "favorite"  with  any 
special  warmth;  but  invited  her  out  to  lunch  and 
gallanted  her  to  the  table  we  had  just  left.  Just 
like  a  man !  Poor  Mary !  she  had  to  fly  round  and 
get  up  what  she  could;  Mrs.  Winthrop  devoted 
herself  to  Ernest  with  a  persistent  ignoring  of  ine 
16* 


370  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

that  I  thought  rude  and  unwomanly  She  asked 
if  he  had  read  a  certain  book;  he  had  not;  she 
then  said,  "I  need  not  ask  then  if  Mrs.  Elliott  haa 
done  so?  These  charming  dishes,  which  she  gets 
up  so  nicely,  must  absorb  all  her  time."  "Of 
course,"  replied  Ernest.  "But  she  contrives  to 
read  the  reports  of  all  the  murders  of  which  the 
newspapers  are  full." 

Mrs.  Wirithrop  took  this  speech  literally,  drew 
away  her  skirts  from  me,  looked  at  me  through  her 
eye-glass,  and  said,  "Yes?"  At  last  she  departed, 
Helen  came  home,  and  Mary  went.  I  gave  Helen 
an  account  of  my  morning ;  she  laughed  heartily,  and 
it  did  me  good  to  hear  that  musical  sound  once  more. 

"  It  is  nearly  five  o'clock,"  I  said,  as  we  at  last 
had  restored  everything  to  order,  "and  this  wholo 
day  has  been  frittered  away  in  the  veriest  trifles. 
It  isn't  living  to  live  so.  Who  is  the  better  for  my 
being  in  the  world  since  six  o'clock  this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  am  for  one,"  she  said,  kissing  my  hot  cheeks ; 
"and  you  "have  given  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  to 
uoveral  persons.  Your  and  Ernest's  hospitality  ia 
always  graceful,  I  admire  it  in  you  both ;  and  this  is 
one  of  the  little  ways,  not  to  be  despised,  of  giving 
real  enjoyment."  It  was  nice  in  her  to  say  that;  i' 
quite  rested  me. 

At  the  dinner  table  Ernest  complimented  me  on 
my  good  house-keeping. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  371 

44 1  was  proud  of  rny  little  wife  at  lunch,    he  said 

''And  yet  you  said  that  outrageous  thing  about 
uiy  reading  about  nothing  but  murders ! "  I  said. 

"Oh,  well,  you  understood  it,"  he  said,  laugh 
ingly. 

"But  that  dreadful  Mrs.  Winthrop  took  it 
literally. 

"What  do  we  care  for  Mrs.  Winthrop?"  he  re 
turned.  "If  you  could  have  seen  the  contrast 
between  you  two  in  my  eyes-! " 

After  all,  one  must  take  life  as  it  comes;  ita 
homely  details  are  so  mixed  up  with  its  sweet 
charities,  and  loves,  and  friendships,  that  one  ia 
forced  to  believe  that  God  has  joined  them  together, 
and  does  not  will  that  they  should  be  put  asunder. 
It  is  something  that  my  husband  has  been  satisfied 
with  his  wife  and  his  home  to-day;  that  does  me 
good. 

MARCH  30. — A  stormy  day  and  the  children 

home  from  school,  and  no  little  frolicking  and  laugh 
ing  going  on.  It  must  be  delightful  to  feel  well  and 
strong  while  one's  children  are  young,  there  is  so 
much  to  do  for  them.  I  do  it;  but  110  one  can  tell 
the  effort  it  costs  me.  What  a  contrast  there  is 
between  their  vitality  and  the  languor  under  whic  h 
I  suffer!  When  their  noise  became  intolerable,  I 
proposed  to  read  to  them;  of  course  they  imult 


372  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

ten  times  as  much  clamor  of  pleasure  and  of  course 
they  leaned  on  me,  ground  their  elbows  into  my 
lap,  and  tired  me  all  out.  As  I  sat  with  thie 
precious  little  group  about  me,  Ernest  opened  the 
door,  looked  in,  gravely  and  without  a  word,  and 
instantly  disappeared.  I  felt  uneasy  and  asked  him, 
this  evening,  why  he  looked  so?  Was  I  indulging 
the  children  too  much,  or  what  was  it?  He  took 
me  into  his  arms  and  said: 

"My  precious  wife,  why  will  you  torment  your 
self  with  such  fancies?  My  very  heart  was  yearning 
over  you  at  that  moment,  as  it  did  the  first  time  I 
saw  you  surrounded  by  your  little  class  at  Sunday 
school,  years  ago,  and  I  was  asking  myself  why 
God  had  given  me  such  a  wife,  and  my  children 
euch  a  mother." 

Oh,  I  am  glad  I  have  got  this  written  down  !  I 
will  read  it  over  when  the  sense  of  my  deficiencies 
overwhelms  me,  while  I  ask  God  why  He  has  given 
me  such  a  patient,  forbearing  husband. 


1.  —  This  has  been  a  sad  day  ^to  our 
chnrch.  Our  dear  Dr.  Cabot  has  gone  to  his  eter 
Dal  home,  and  left  us  as  sheep  without  a  shepherd. 
His  death  was  sudden  at  the  last,  and  found  us 
all  unprepared  for  it.  But  my  tears  of  sorrow  arc 
mingled  with  tears  of  joy.  His  heart  had  long  been 
in  heaven,  he  was  ready  to  go  at  a  moment's  warn 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  373 

lug;  never  was  a  soul  so  constantly  and  joyously 
on  the  wing  as  his.  Poor  Mrs.  Cabot!  Sho  is  left 
very  desolate,  for  all  their  children  are  married  and 
settled  at  a  distance.  But  she  bears  this  sorrow 
like  one  who  has  long  felt  herself  a  pilgrim  and  a 
stranger  on  earth.  How  strange  that  we  ever  for 
get  that  we  are  all  such! 

APRIL  16. — The  desolate  pilgrimage  was 

not  long.  Dear  Mrs.  Cabot  was  this  day  laid  away 
by  the  side  of  her  beloved  husband,  and  it  is  delight 
ful  to  think  of  them  as  not  divided  by  death,  but 
united  by  it  in  a  complete  and  eternal  union. 

I  never  saw  a  husband  and  wife  more  tenderly 
attached  to  each  other,  and  this  is  a  beautiful  close 
to  their  long  and  happy  married  life.  I  find  it  hard 
not  to  wish  and  pray  that  I  may  as  speedily  follow 
my  precious  husband,  should  God  call  him  away 
first.  But  it  is  not  for  me  to  choose. 

How  I  shall  miss  these  faithful  friends,  who,  from 
my  youth  up  have  been  my  stay  and  my  staff  in  the 
Louse  of  my  pilgrimage!  Almost  all  the  disap 
pointments  and  sorrows  of  my  life  have  had  their 
Christian  sympathy,  particularly  the  daily,  wasting 
solicitude  concerning  my  darling  Una,  for  they  too 
watched  for  years  over  as  delicate  a  flower,  and 
saw  it  fade  and  die.  Only  those  who  have  suffeied 
thus  can  appreciate  the  heart-soreness  through 


374  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

which,  no  matter  how  outwardly  cheerful  I  may  be, 
I  am  always  passing.  But  what  then !  Have  1 
not  ten  thousand  times  made  this  my  prayer,  that 
in  the  words  of  Leighton,  my  will  might  become 
'identical  with  God's  will." 

And  shall  He  not  take  me  at  my  word  ?  Just  as 
I  was  writing  these  words,  my  canary  burst  forth 
with  a  song  so  joyous  that  a  song  was  put  also  into 
my  mouth.  Something  seemed  to  say,  this  captivo 
sings  in  his  cage  because  it  has  never  known  liberty 
and  cannot  regret  a  lost  freedom.  So  the  soul  ot 
my  child,  limited  by  the  restrictions  of  a  feeble 
body,  never  having  known  the  gladness  of  exube 
rant  health,  may  sing  songs  that  will  enliven  and 
cheer.  Yes,  arid  does  sing  them!  What  should  we 
do  without  her  gentle,  loving  presence,  whose 
frailty  calls  forth  our  tenderest  affections  and 
whose  sweet  face  makes  sunshine  in  the  shadiest 
places !  I  am  sure  that  the  boys  are  truly  blessed 
by  having  a  sister  always  at  home  to  welcome  them, 
and  that  their  best  manliness  is  appealed  to  by  her 
helplessness. 

What  this  child  15  to  me  I  cannot  tell.  And  yet, 
if  the  skillful  and  kind  Gardener  should  house  this 
delicate  plant  befjre  frosts  come,  should  I  dare  to 
complain  ? 


XXV. 


MAT  4. 

1SS  CLIFFOKD  came  to  lunch  with  us  on 
Wednesday.  Her  remarkable  restoration 
to  health  has  attracted  a  good  deal  of  at 
tention,  and  has  given  Ernest  a  certain  re 
putation  which  does  not  come  amiss  to  him.  Not 
that  he  is  ambitious;  a  more  unworldly  man  does 
not  live;  but  his  extreme  reserve  and  modesty  have 
obscured  the  light  that  is  now  beginning  to  shine. 
We  all  enjoyed  Miss  Clifford's  visit.  She  is  one  of 
the  freshest,  most  original  creatures  I  ever  met  with, 
and  kept  us  all  laughing  with  her  quaint  speeches, 
long  after  every  particle  of  lunch  had  disappeared 
from  the  table.  But  this  mobile  nature  turns  to  the 
serious  side  of  life  with  marvelous  ease  and  celerity, 
as  perhaps  all  sound  ones  ought  to  do.  I  took  her 
up  to  my  room  where  my  work-basket  was,  and 
Helen  followed,  with  hers. 

"I  have  brought  something  to  read  to  you,  dear 
Mrs,  Elliott,"  Miss  Clifford  began,  the  moment  we 
qad  seated  ourselves,  "  which  I  have  just  lighted  on, 

(375) 


376  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

and  I  am  sure  you  will  like.  A  nobleman  writes  to 
Fenelon  asking  certain  questions,  and  a  part  of 
tliese  questions,  with  the  replies,  I  want  to  enjoy 
with  you,  as  they  cover  a  good  deal  of  the  ground 
we  have  often  discussed  together. 


"How  shall  I  offer  my  purely  indifferent  actions 
to  God;  walks,  visits  made  and  received,  dress,  lit 
tle  proprieties,  such  as  washing  the  hands,  etc.,  the 
reading  of  books  of  history,  business  with  which  I 
am  charged  for  my  friends,  other  amusements,  such 
as  shopping,  having  clothes  made,  and  equipages.  I 
want  to  have  some  sort  of  prayer,  or  method  of  of 
fering  each  of  these  things  to  God. 

REPLY. 

The  most  indifferent  actions  cease  to  be  such,  and 
become  good  as  soon  as  one  performs  them  with  the 
intention  of  conforming  one's  self  in  them,  to  the 
will  of  God.  They  are  often  better  and  purer 
than  certain  actions  which  appear  more  virtuous. 
1st,  because  they  are  less  of  our  own  choice  and 
more  in  the  order  of  Providence  when  one  is 
obliged  to  perform  them;  2d,  because  they  are 
simpler  and  less  exposed  to  vain  complaisance;  3d, 
because  if  one  yields  to  them  with  moderation,  one 
finds  in  their,  more  of  death  to  one's  inclinations 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  377 

than  in  certain  acts  of  fervor  in  which  self-lovo 
mingles;  finally,  because  these  little  occasions  occur 
more  frequently,  and  furnish  a  secret  occasion  for 
continually  making  every  moment  profitable. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  make  great  efforts  nor  acta 
of  great  reflection,  in  order  to  offer  what  are  called 
indifferent  actions.  It  is  enough  to  lift  the  soul  one 
instant  to  God,  to  make  a  simple  offering  of  it. 
Everything  which  God  wishes  us  to  do,  and  which 
enters  into  the  course  of  occupation  suitable  to  our 
position,  can  and  ought  to  be  offered  to  God;  noth 
ing  is  unworthy  of  Him  but  sin.  When  you  feel 
that  an  action  cannot  be  offered  to  God,  conclude 
that  it  does  not  become  a  Christian;  it  is  at  least 
necessary  to  suspect  it,  and  seek  light  concerning  it. 
I  would  not  have  a  special  prayer  for  each  of  these 
things,  the  elevation  of  the  heart  at  the  moment 
suffices. 

As  for  visits,  commissions  and  the  like,  as  there 
is  danger  of  following  one's  own  taste  too  much,  I 
would  add  to  this  elevating  of  the  heart  a  prayer  for 
grace  to  moderate  myself  and  use  precaution. 

u. 

In  prayer  I  cannot  fix  my  mind,  or  I  have  inter 
vals  of  time  when  it  is  elsewhere,  and  it  is  often 
distracted  for  a  long  time  before  I  perceive  it.  I 
want  to  find  some  means  of  becoming  its  master 


378  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

REPLY. 

Fidelity  in  following  the  rules  that  have  been 
given  you,  and  in  recalling  your  mind  erery  time 
you  perceive  its  distraction,  will  gradually  give 
you  the  grace  of  being  more  recollected.  Mean 
while  bear  your  involuntary  distractions  with  pa 
tience  and  humility;  you  deserve  nothing  better. 
Is  it  surprising  that  recollection  is  difficult  to  a 
man  so  long  dissipated  and  far  from  God  ? 

in. 

I  wish  to  know  if  it  is  best  to  record,  on  my 
tablets,  the  faults  and  the  sins  I  have  committed,  in 
order  not  to  run  the  risk  of  forgetting  them.  I  ex 
cite  in  myself  to  repentance  for  my  faults  as  much 
as  I  can;  but  I  have  never  felt  any  real  grief  on  ac 
count  of  them.  When  I  examine  myself  at  night, 
I  see  persons  far  more  perfect  than  I,  complain  of 
more  sin ;  as  for  me,  I  seek,  I  find  nothing ;  and  yet 
it  is  impossible  there  should  not  be  many  points  on 
which  to  implore  pardon  every  day  of  my  life. 

REPLT. 

You  should  examine  yourself  every  night,  but 
simply  and  briefly.  In  the  disposition  to  which 
God  has  brought  you,  you  will  not  voluntarily  com- 
rnit  any  considerable  fault  without  remembering 
reproaching  yourself  for  it.  AS  to  Jittlo  faults. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  579 

scarcely  perceived,  even  if  you  sometimes  forge! 
them,  this  need  not  make  you  uneasy. 

As  to  lively  grief  on  account  of  your  sins,  it  ia 
not  necessary.  God  gives  it  when  it  pleases  Him. 
True  and  essential  conversion  of  the  heart  consists 
in  a  full  will  to  sacrifice  all  to  God.  What  I  call 
full  will,  is  a  fixed  immovable  disposition  of  the 
will  to  resume  none  of  the  voluntary  affections 
which  may  alter  the  purity  of  the  love  to  God  and 
to  abandon  itself  to  all  the  crosses  which  it  will  per 
haps  be  necessary  to  bear,  in  order  to  accomplish 
the  will  of  God  always  and  in  all  things.  As  to 
sorrow  for  sin,  when  one  has  it,  one  ought  to  return 
thanks  for  it;  when  one  perceives  it  to  be  wanting, 
one  should  humble  one's  self  peacefully  before  God 
without  trying  to  excite  it  by  vain  efforts. 

You  find  in  your  self-examination  fewer  faults 
than  persons  more  advanced  and  more  perfect  do; 
it  is  because  your  interior  light  is  still  feeble.  It 
will  increase,  and  the  view  of  your  infidelities  will 
increase  in  proportion.  It  suffices,  without  making 
yourself  uneasy,  to  try  to  be  faithful  to  the  degree 
of  light  you  possess,  and  to  instruct  yourself  by 
reading  and  meditation.  It  will  not  do  to  try  to 
forestall  the  grace  that  belongs  to  a  more  advanced 
period.  It  would  only  serve  to  trouble  and  dis- 
courage  you,  and  even  to  exhaust  you  by  continual 
anxiety;  the  time  that  should  be  spent  in  loving 


380  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

God  would  be  given  to  forced  returns  upon  your- 
self,  which  secretly  nourish  self-love. 


IV. 

In  my  prayers  my  mind  has  difficulty  in  finding 
anything  to  say  to  God.  My  heart  is  not  in  it,  01 
it  is  inaccessible  to  the  thoughts  of  my  mind. 

REPLY. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  say  much  to  God.  Often 
times  one  does  not  speak  much  to  a  friend  whom 
one  is  delighted  to  see;  one  looks  at  him  with  plea 
sure;  one  speaks  certain  short  words  to  him  which 
are  mere  expressions  of  feeling.  The  mind  has  no 
part  in  them,  or  next  to  none ;  one  keeps  repeating 
the  same  words.  It  is  not  so  much  a  variety  of 
thoughts  that  one  seeks  in  intercourse  with  a  friend, 
as  a  certain  repose  and  correspondence  of  heart.  It 
is  thus  we  are  with  God,  who  does  not  disdain  to 
be  our  tenderest,  most  cordial,  most  familiar,  n'ost 
intimate  friend.  A  word,  a  sigh,  a  sentiment,  says 
nil  to  God;  it  is  not  always  necessary  to  have 
transports  of  sensible  tenderness;  a  will  all  naked 
and  dry,  without  life,  without  vivacity,  without 
pleasure,  is  often  purest  in  the  sight  of  God.  In 
fine,  it  is  necessary  to  content  one's  self  with  giving 
to  Him  what  He  gives  it  to  give,  a  fervent  heart 
when  it  is  fervent,  a  heart  firm  and  faithful  in  its 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  .  381 

aridity,  when  He  deprives  it  of  sensible  fervor.  It 
does  not  always  depend  on  you  to  feel;  but  it  is 
necessary  to  wish  to  feel.  Leave  it  to  God  to 
choose  to  make  you  feel  sometimes,  in  order  to 
sustain  your  weakness  and  infancy  in  Christian  life; 
sometimes  weaning  you  from  that  sweet  and  con 
soling  sentiment  which  is  the  milk  of  babes,  in 
order  to  humble  you,  to  make  you  grow,  and  to 
make  you  robust  in  the  violent  exercise  of  faith,  by 
causing  you  to  eat  the  bread  of  the  strong  in  the 
sweat  of  your  brow.  Would  you  only  love  God 
according  as  He  will  make  you  take  pleasure  in 
loving  Him?  You  would  be  loving  your  own  tender 
ness  and  feeling,  fancying  that  you  were  loving 
God.  Even  while  receiving  sensible  gifts,  prepare 
yourself  by  pure  faith  for  the  time  when  you  might 
be  deprived  of  them;  and  you  will  suddenly  suc 
cumb  if  you  had  only  relied  on  such  support 

I  forgot  to  speak  of  some  practices  which  may, 
at  the  beginning,  facilitate  the  remembrance  of  the 
offering  one  ought  to  make  to  God,  of  all  the  or 
dinary  acts  of  the  day. 

1.  Form  the  resolution  to  do  so,  every  morning, 
and  call  yourself  to  account  in  your  self-examina 
tion  at  night. 

2.  Make  no  resolutions  but  for  good  reasons,  either 
from    propriety   or    the   necessity   of   relaxing    the 
mind,  etc.     Thus,  in  accustoming  one's  self  to  re- 


382  ,  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

trench   the   useless    little   by  little,    one    accustorat 
one's  self  to  offer  what  is  not  proper  to  curtail. 

3.  Renew  one's  self  in  this  disposition  whenever 
one  is  alone,  in  order  to  be  better  prepared  to  re 
collect  it  when  in  company. 

4.  Whenevei  one  surprises  one's  self  in  too  great 
dissipation,  or  in  speaking  too  freely  of  his  neighbor, 
let  him  collect  himself  and  offer  to  God  all  the  rest 
of  the  conversation. 

5.  To  flee,  with  confidence,  to  God,  to  act  accord 
ing    to    His   will,    when    one    enters    company,    or 
engages  in  some  occupation  which  may  cause  one 
to  fall  into  temptation.     The  sight  of  danger  ought 
to  warn  of  the  need  there  is  to  lift  the  heart  toward 
Him  by  whom  one  may  be  preserved  from  it." 

We  both  thanked  her,  as  she  finished  reading, 
and  I  begged  her  to  lend  me  the  volume  that  I 
might  make  the  above  copy. 

I  hope  I  have  gained  some  valuable  hints  from  this 
letter,  and  that  I  shall  see  more  plainly  than  ever, 
that  it  is  a  religion  of  principle  that  God  want 8 
from  us,  not  one  of  mere  feeling. 

Helen  remarked  that  she  was  most  struck  by  the 
assertion  that  one  cannot  forestall  the  graces  that 
belong  to  a  more  advanced  period.  She  said  she 
had  assumed  that  she  ought  to  experience  all  that 
the  most  mature  Christian  did,  and  that  it  rested 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  383 

her  to  think  of  God  as  doing  this  work  for  her, 
making  repentance,  for  instance,  a  free  gift,  not  a 
conquest  to  be  won  for  one's  self. 

Miss  Clifford  said  that  the  whole  idea  of  giving 
one's  self  to  God  in  such  little  daily  acts  as  visiting, 
shopping,  and  the  like,  was  entirely  new  to  her. 

"But  fancy/'  she  went  on,  her  beautiful  face 
lighted  up  with  enthusiasm,  "what  a  blessed  life 
that  must  be,  when  the  base  things  of  this  world, 
and  things  that  are  despised,  are  so  many  links  to 
the  invisible  world,  and  to  the  things  God  has 
chosen ! " 

"In  other  words,"  I  said,  "the  top  of  the  ladder 
that  rests  on  earth,  reaches  to  heaven,  and  we  may 
ascend  it  as  the  angels  did  in  Jacob's  dream." 

"And  descend  too,  as  they  did,"  Helen  put  in, 
despondently. 

"Now  you  shall  not  speak  in  that  tone,"  cried 
Miss  Clifford.  "  Let  us  look  at  the  bright  side  of 
life,  and  believe  that  God  means  us  to  be  always 
ascending,  always  getting  nearer  to  Himself,  al 
ways  learning  something  new  about  Him,  always 
loving  Him  better  and  better.  To  be  sure  our 
.-..iila  are  sick,  and  of  themselves  can't  keep  'ever 

i  the  wing,'  but  I  have  had  some  delightful 
noughts  of  late  from  just  hearing  the  title  of  a 
Look,  'God's  method  with  the  maladies  of  tha 
soul.  It  gives  one  such  a  conception  of  the  seem- 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 


ing  ills  of  life;  to  think  of  Him  as  our  Physician, 
the  ills  all  remedies,  the  deprivations  only  a  whole 
some  regimen,  the  losses  all  gains.  Why,  as  I  study 
this  individual  case,  and  that,  see  how  patiently  and 
persistently  He  tries  now  this  remedy,  now  that, 
and  how  infallibly  He  cures  the  souls  that  submit 
to  His  remedies,  I  love  Him  so  !  I  love  Him  so  ! 
And  I  am  so  astonished  that  we  are  restive  under 
His  unerring  hand  !  Think  how  He  dealt  with  me. 
My  soul  was  sick  unto  death,  sick  with  worldliness, 
and  self-pleasing  and  folly.  There  was  only  one  way 
of  making  me  listen  to  reason  and  that  was  just  the 
way  He  took.  He  snatched  me  right  out  of  the 
world  and  shut  me  up  in  one  room,  crippled,  help 
less  and  alone,  and  set  me  to  thinking,  thinking, 
thinking,  till  I  saw  the  emptiness  and  shallowness 
of  all  in  which  I  had  hitherto  been  involved.  And 
then  He  sent  you  and  your  mother  to  show  me  the 
reality  of  life,  and  to  reveal  to  me  my  invisible. 
unknown  Physician.  Can  I  love  Him  with  half  my 
heart?  Can  I  be  asking  questions  as  to  how  much 
I  am  to  pay  towards  the  debt  I  owe  Him?" 

By  this  time  Helen's  work  had  fallen  from  her 
Lands  and  tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

"How  I  thank  you,"  she  said,  softly,  "for  what 
you  have  said.  You  have  interpreted  life  to  me  ! 
You  have  given  me  a  new  conception  of  my  God 
and  Saviour.' 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  385 

Miss  Clifford  seemed  quenched  and  humbled  b^ 
these  words;  her  enthusiasm  faded  away  and  she 
looked  at  Helen  with  a  deprecatory  air,  as  she 
replied, 

"Don't  say  that!  I  never  felt  so  unfit  for  any. 
thing  but  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  Christ's  disciples  and 
learn  of  them." 

Yet  I,  so  many  years  one  of  those  disciples,  had 
been  sitting  at  her  feet,  and  had  learned  of  her. 
Never  had  I  so  realized  the  magnitude  of  the  work 
to  be  done  in  this  world,  nor  the  power  and  good 
ness  of  Him  who  has  undertaken  to  do  it  all.  I 
was  glad  to  be  alone,  to  walk  my  room  singing 
praises  to  Him  for  every  instance  in  which,  as  my 
Physician,  He  had  "disappointed  my  hope  and  de 
feated  my  joy,"  and  given  me  to  drink  of  the  cup  of 
sorrow  and  bereavement. 

MAT  24. — I  read  to  Ernest  the  extract  from 

Fenelon  which  has  made  such  an  impression  on  me. 

"  Every  business  man,  in  short  every  man  leading 
an  active  life,  ought  to  read  that,"  he  said.  "\Vo 
phould  have  a  new  order  of  things  as  the  result 
Instead  of  fancying  that  our  ordinary  daily  work 
was  one  thing  and  our  religion  quite  another  thing, 
we  should  transmute  our  drudgery  into  acts  of  wor- 
•ship,  Instead  of  going  to  prayer-meetings  to  get 
into  a  'good  frame,'  we  should  live  in  a  good  frame 
17 


386  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

from  morning  till  night,  from  night  till  morning 
and  prayer  and  praise  would  be  only  another  form 
for  expressing  the  love  and  faith  and  obedience  we 
had  been  exercising  amid  the  pressure  of  business. 

"  I  only  wish  I  had  understood  this  years  ago,"  \ 
said.  "I  have  made  prayer  too  much  of  a  luxury, 
and  have  often  inwardly  chafed  and  fretted  when 
the  care  of  my  children,  at  times,  made  it  utterly 
impossible  to  leave  them  for  private  devotion — when 
they  have  been  sick,  for  instance,  or  in  other  like 
emergencies.  I  reasoned  this  way:  'Here  is  a 
special  demand  on  my  patience,  and  I  am  naturally 
impatient  I  must  have  time  to  go  away  and  en 
treat  the  Lord  to  equip  me  for  this  conflict.'  But  I 
see  now  that  the  simple  act  of  cheerful  acceptance 
of  the  duty  imposed  and  the  solace  and  support 
withdrawn,  would  have  united  me  more  fully  to 
Christ  than  the  highest  enjoyment  of  His  presence 
in  prayer  could." 

"Yes,  every  act  of  obedience  is  an  act  of  wor 
ship,"  he  said. 

"But  why  don't  we  learn  that  sooner?  Why  do 
we  waste  our  lives  before  we  learn  how  to  live  ? " 

"I  am  not  sure,"  he  returned,  "that  we  do  not 
learn  as  fast  as  we  are  willing  to  learn.  God  does 
not  force  instruction  upon  us,  but  when  we  say  as 
Luther  did,  'More  light,  Lord,  more  light,  rhe 
light  cornea" 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  387 

I  questioned  myself  after  he  had  gone,  as  tc 
whether  this  could  be  true  of  me.  Is  there  not  in 
my  heart  some  secret  reluctance  to  know  the  truth, 
lest  that  knowledge  should  call  to  a  higher  and  a 
holier  life  than  I  have  yet  lived? 

JUNE  2. — I  went  to  see  Mrs.  Campbell  a  few 

days  ago,  and  found,  to  my  great  joy,  that  Helen 
had  just  been  there,  and  that  they  had  had  a  long 
and  earnest  conversation  together.  Mrs.  Campbell 
has  failed  a  good  deal  of  late,  and  it  is  not  probable 
that  we  shall  have  her  with  us  much  longer.  Her 
every  look  and  word  is  precious  to  me  when  I  think 
of  her  as  one  who  is  so  soon  to  enter  the  unseen 
world,  and  see  our  Saviour,  and  be  welcomed  home 
by  Him.  If  it  is  so  delightful  to  be  with  those  who 
are  on  the  way  to  heaven,  what  would  it  be  to  have 
fellowship  with  one  who  had  come  thence,  and 
could  tell  us  what  it  is ! 

She  spoke  freely  about  death,  and  said  Ernest  had 
promised  to  take  charge  of  her  funeral,  and  to 
see  that  she  was  buried  by  the  side  of  her  hus 
band. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  she  added,  with  a  smile, 
"  though  I  am  expecting  to  be  so  soon  a  saint  in 
heaven,  1  am  a  human  being  still,  with  human  weak 
nesses.  What  can  it  really  matter  where  this  weary 
old  body  is  laid  away,  when  I  have  done  with  it 


388  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

and  gone  aiid  left  it  forever?  And  yet  I  am  leaving 
directions  about  its  disposal ! " 

I  said  I  was  glad  that  she  was  still  human,  but 
that  I  did  not  think  it  a  weakness  to  take  thought 
for  the  abode  in  which  her  soul  had  dwelt  so  long 
I  saw  that  she  was  tired,  and  was  coming  away, 
but  she  held  me,  and  would  not  let  me  go. 

''Yes,  I  am  tired,"  she  said,  "but  what  of  that? 
It  is  only  a  question  of  days  now,  and  all  my  tired 
feelings  will  be  over.  Then  I  shall  be  as  young  and 
as  fresh  as  ever,  and  shall  have  strength  to  praise 
and  to  love  God  as  I  cannot  do  now.  But  before  I 
go,  I  want  once  more  to  tell  you  how  good  He  is, 
how  blessed  it  is  to  suffer  with  Him,  how  infinitely 
happy  He  has  made  me  in  the  very  hottest  heat  of 
the  furnace.  It  will  strengthen  you  in  your  trials 
to  recall  this  my  dying  testimony.  There  is  no 
wilderness  so  dreary  but  that  His  love  can  illumi 
nate  it;  no  desolation  so  desolate  but  that  He  can 
sweeten  it.  I  know  what  I  am  saying.  It  is  no  de 
lusion.  I  believe  that  the  highest,  purest  happiness 
is  known  only  to  those  who  have  learned  Christ  in 
ruck-rooms,  in  poverty,  in  racking  suspense  and 
anxiety,  amid  hardships,  and  at  the  open  grave." 

Yos,  the  radiant  face,  worn  by  sickness  and  suf 
fering,  but  radiant  still,  said  in  language  yet  more 
u  1 1  speakably  impressive, 

"To  learn  Christ,  this  is  life  I" 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  389 

I  came  into  the  busy  and  noisy  streets  as  one  de« 
seen  ding  from  the  mount,  and  on  reaching  home 
found  my  darling  Una  very  ill  in  Ernest's  arms. 
She  had  fallen,  and  injured  her  head.  How  I  had 
prayed  that  God  would  temper  the  wind  to  this 
shori  lamb,  and  now  she  had  had  such  a  fall !  We 
watched  over  her  till  far  into  the  night,  scarce 
ly  speaking  to  each  other,  but  I  know  by  the  way 
in  which  Ernest  held  my  hand  clasped  in  his,  that 
her  precious  life  was  in  danger.  He  consented  at 
last  to  lie  down,  but  Helen  staid  with  me.  What 
a  night  it  was!  God  only  knows  what  the  human 
heart  can  experience  in  a  space  of  time  that  men 
call  hours.  I  went  over  all  the  past  history  of  the 
child,  recalling  all  her  sweet  looks  and  words,  and 
my  own  secret  repining  at  the  delicate  health  that 
has  cut  her  off  from  so  many  of  the  pleasures  that 
belong  to  her  age.  And  the  more  I  thought,  the 
more  I  clung  to  her,  on  whom,  frail  as  she  is,  I  was 
beginning  to  lean,  and  whose  influence  in  our  home 
I  could  not  think  of  losing  without  a  shudder, 
Alas,  my  faith  seemed,  for  a  time,  to  flee,  and  I  could 
see  just  what  a  poor,  weak  human  being  is  without 
it.  But  before  daylight  crept  into  my  room,  light 
from  on  high  streamed  in  my  heart,  and  I  gave 
even  this.,  my  ewe-lamb,  away,  as  my  free-will  offer 
ing  to  God.  Could  I  refuse  Him  my  child  because 
she  was  the  very  apple  of  my  eye?  Nay  then,  but 


390  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

let  me  give  tc  Him,  not  what  I  value  least,  but 
what  I  prize  and  delight  in  most.  Could  I  not  en- 
dure  heart-sickness  for  Him  who  had  given  His 
only  Son  for  me  ?  And  just  as  I  got  to  that  gweet 
consent  to  suffer,  He  who  had  only  lifted  the  rod  to 
try  my  faith,  laid  it  down.  My  darling  opened  her 
eyes  and  looked  at  us  intelligently,  and  with  her 
own  loving  smile.  But  I  dared  not  snatch  her  and 
press  her  to  my  heart;  for  her  sake  I  must  be  out 
wardly  calm  at  least. 

JUNE  6. — I  am  at  home  with  my  precious 

Una,  all  the  rest  having  gone  to  church.  She  lies 
peacefully  on  the  bed,  sadly  disfigured,  for  the  time, 
but  Ernest  says  he  apprehends  no  danger  now,  and 
we  are  a  most  happy,  a  most  thankful  household. 
The  children  have  all  been  greatly  moved  by  the 
events  of  the  last  few  days,  and  hover  about  their 
sister  with  great  sympathy  and  tenderness.  Where 
ehe  fell  from,  or  how  she  fell,  no  one  knows;  she 
remembers  nothing  about  it  herself,  and  it  will  al 
ways  remain  a  mystery. 

This  is  the  second  time  that  this  beloved  child 
bas  been  returned  to  us  after  we  had  given  hei 
away  to  God. 

And  as  the  giving  cost  us  ten-fold  more  now  than 
it  did  when  she  was  a  feeble  baby,  so  we  receive 
her  pow  as  a  fresh  gift  from  our  loving  Father's 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  3i)l 

hand,  with  ten-fold  delight.  Ah,  we  have  no  ex 
cuse  for  not  giving  ourselves  entirely  to  Him.  lie 
has  revealed  Himself  to  us  in  so  mjny  sorrows,  and 
in  so  many  joys;  re^ealed  Himsel*  a?  He  doth  noi 
unto  tho  world  1 


XXVI. 


MAT  13. 

HIS  has  been  a  Sunday  to  be  held  in  long 
remembrance.  We  were  summoned  early 
this  morning  to  Mrs.  Campbell,  and  have 
seen  her  joyful  release  from  the  fetters  that 
have  bound  her  so  long.  Her  loss  to  me  is  irrepar 
able.  But  I  can  truly  thank  God  that  one  more 
"  tired  traveler,"  has  had  a  sweet  "  welcome  home." 
I  can  minister  no  longer  to  her  bodily  wants,  and 
listen  to  her  councils  no  more,  but  she  has  entered 
as  an  inspiration  into  my  life,  and  through  all 
eternity  I  shall  bless  God  that  He  gave  me  that  faith 
ful,  praying  friend.  How  little  they  know  who 
languish  in  what  seem  useless  sick-rooms,  or  amid 
the  restrictions  of  frail  health,  what  work  they  do 
for  Christ  by  the  power  of  saintly  living,  and  by  even 
fragmentary  prayers. 

Before  her  words  fade  out  of  my  memory  I  want 
to  write  down,  from  hasty  notes  made  at  the  time, 
her  answer  to  some  of  the  last  questions  I  asked 
her  on  earth.  She  had  always  enjoyed  intervals  of 
comparative  ease,  and  it  was  in  one  of  these  that  J 
(392) 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  393 

asked  hei  what  she  conceived  to  be  the  characteris 
tics  of  an  advanced  state  of  grace.  She  replied,  "  I 
think  that  the  mature  Christian  is  always,  at  all 
times,  and  in  all  circumstances,  what  he  was  in  hia 
best  moments  in  the  progressive  stages  of  his  life. 
There  were  seasons,  all  along  his  course,  when  he 
loved  God  supremely;  when  he  embraced  the  cross 
joyfully  and  penitently;  when  he  held  intimate  com 
munion  with  Christ,  and  loved  his  neighbor  as  him 
self.  But  he  was  always  in  terror,  lest  under  the 
force  of  temptation,  all  this  should  give  place  to 
deadness  and  dulness,  when  he  would  chafe  and  re 
bel  in  the  hour  of  trial,  and  judge  his  fellow  man 
with  a  harsh  and  bitter  judgment,  and  give  way  to 
angry,  passionate  emotions.  But  these  fluctuations 
cease,  after  a  time,  to  disturb  his  peace.  Love  to 
Christ  becomes  the  abiding,  inmost  principle  of  his 
life;  he  loves  Him  rather  for  what  He  is  than  for 
what  He  has  done  or  will  do  for  him  individually, 
and  God's  honor  becomes  so  dear  to  him  that  he  feels 
personally  wounded  when  that  is  called  in  question, 
And  the  will  of  God  becomes  so  dear  to  him  that 
he  loves  it  best  when  it  'triumphs  at  his  cost.' 

"Once  he  only  prayed  at  set  times  and  seasons,  and 
idolized  good  frames  and  fervent  emotions.  Now 
he  prays  without  ceasing,  and  whether  on  the 
mount  or  down  in  the  depths  depends  wholly  upon 
hie  Saviour 


394  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

"His  old  self-confidence  has  now  given  pla^p  t<- 
ttliild-like  humility,  that  will  not  let  him  taVo  a  atop 
alone  and  the  sweet  peace  that  is  now  habitual  to 
him,  combined  with  the  sense  of  his  own  imperfec 
tions,  fills  him  with  love  to  his  fellow  man.  lie 
hears  and  believes  and  hopes  and  endures  all  things 
and  thinketh  no  evil.  The  tones  of  his  voioe,  the 
very  expression  of  his  countenance,  become  chang 
ed,  love  now  controlling  where  human  passicne  held 
sway.  In  short,  he  is  not  only  a  new  creature  in 
Jesus  Christ,  but  has  the  habitual  and  blessed  con 
sciousness  that  this  is  so." 

These  words  were  spoken  deliberately  hnd  with 
reflection. 

"  You  have  described  my  mother,  just  as  she  was 
from  the  moment  her  only  son,  the  last  of  six,  was 
taken  from  her,"  I  said,  at  last.  "I  never  before 
quite  understood  how  that  final  sorrow  weaned  her, 
so  to  say,  from  herself,  and  made  her  life  all  love  to 
God  and  all  love  to  man.  But  I  see  it  now.  Dear 
Mrs.  Campbell,  pray  for  me  that  I  may  yet  weai 
her  mantle ! " 

She  smiled  with  a  significance  that  said  she  had 
already  done  so,  and  then  we  parted — parted  thai 
she  might  end  her  pilgrimage  and  go  to  her  rest — 
parted  that  I  might  pursue  mine,  I  know  not  how 
long,  nor  amid  how  many  cares  and  sorrows,  not 
with  what  weariness  and  heart-sickness — parted  to 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  395 

meet  again  in  the  presence  of  Him  we  love,  with 
those  who  have  come  out  of  great  tribulation, 
whose  robes  have  been  made  white  in  the  blood  of 
the  Lamb,  and  who  are  before  the  throne  of  God, 
and  serve  Him  day  and  night  in  His  temple,  to 
hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any  more,  for  the 
Lamb  which  is  in  the  midst  of  the  throne  shall  lead 
them  into  living  fountains  of  waters;  and  God  shall 
wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes. 

MAY  25. — We  were  talking  of  Mrs.  Camp 
bell,  and  of  her  blessed  life  and  blessed  death. 
Helen  said  it  discouraged  and  troubled  her  to  see 
and  hear  such  things. 

"The  last  time  I  saw  her  when  she  was  able  to 
converse,"  said  she,  "  I  told  her  that  when  I  reflect 
ed  on  my  want  of  submission  to  God's  will,  I 
doubted  whether  I  really  could  be  His  child.  She 
said,  in  her  gentle,  sweet  way: 

" '  Would  you  venture  to  resist  His  will,  if  you 
could?  Would  you  really  have  your  dear  James 
back  again  in  this  world,  if  you  could  ?  * 

" 4 1  would,  I  certainly  would/  I  said. 

"  She  returned,  '  I  sometimes  find  it  a  help,  when 
dull  and  cramped  in  my  devotions,  to  say  to  myself: 
Suppose  Christ  should  now  appear  before  you,  and 
you  could  see  Him  as  he  appeared  to  His  disciplea 
on  earth,  what  would  you  say  to  Him?  This 


396  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

brings  Him  near,  and  I  say  what  I  would  say  if  lie 
were  visibly  present.  I  do  the  same  when  a  new 
sorrow  threatens  me.  I  imagine  my  Redeemer  aa 
coming  personally  to  say  to  me,  "  For  your  sake  I  am 
a  man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with  grief;  now 
for  My  sake  give  me  this  child,  bear  this  burden, 
submit  to  this  loss."  Can  I  refuse  Him?  Now, 
dear,  he  has  really  come  thus  to  you,  and  asked  you 
to  show  your  love  to  Him,  your  faith  in  Him,  by 
giving  him  the  most  precious  of  your  treasures.  If 
He  were  here  at  this  moment,  and  offered  to  restore 
it  to  you,  would  you  dare  to  say,  "Yea,  Lord,  I 
know,  far  better  than  Thou  dost,  what  is  good  for 
him  and  good  for  me;  I  will  have  him  return  to 
me,  cost  what  it  may;  in  this  world  of  uncertainties 
and  disappointments  I  shall  be  sure  of  happiness  in 
his  society,  and  he  will  enjoy  more  here  on  earth 
with  me,  than  he  could  enjoy  in  the  companionship 
of  saints  and  angels  and  of  the  Lord  Himself  in 
heaven."  Could  you  dare  to  say  this?'  Oh,  Katy, 
what  straits  she  drove  me  into!  No,  I  could  not 
dare  to  say  that!" 

"Then,  my  darling  little  sister!"  I  cried,  "you 
witf  give  up  this  struggle?  You  will  let  God  do 
what  He  will  with  His  own?" 

"I  have  to  let  Him,"  she  replied;  "but  i  submit 
because  I  must" 

I  looked  at  her  gentle,  pure  face  as  she  uttered 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  397 

these  words,  arid  could  only  marvel  at  the  strong 
will  that  had  110  expression  there. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "do  you  think  a  real  Chris 
tian  can  feel  as  I  do?  For  my  part  I  doubt  it.  I 
doubt  everything." 

Doubt  everything,  but  believe  in  Christ,"  I 
said.  "  Suppose,  for  argument's  sake,  you  are  not  a 
Christian.  You  can  become  one  now/  The  color 
rose  in  her  lovely  face;  she  clasped  her  hands  to 
gether  in  a  sort  of  ecstacy. 

"  Yes"  she  said,  " I  can" 

At  last  God  had  sent  her  the  word  she  wanted. 

MAT    28. — Helen    came    to    breakfast    this 

morning  in  a  simple  white  dress.  I  had  not  time  to 
tell  the  children  not  to  allude  to  it,  so  they  began  in 
chorus : 

"Why,  Aunt  Helen!  you  have  put  on  a  white 
dress ! " 

"Why,  aunty,  how  queer  you  look!" 
"  Hurrah !  if  she  don't  look  like  other  folks !  " 
She   bore    it    all   with    her   usual    gentleness;    or 
rather   with    a   positive    sweetness    that    captivated 
them  as  her  negative  patience  had  never  done.     I 
said  nothing  to  her,  nor  did  she  to  me  till  late  in  the 
day,  when  she  came  to  me,  and  said: 

"Katy,  God  taught  you  what  to  say.  All  these 
years  I  have  been  tormenting  myself  with  doubts 


398  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

as  tr  whet;  er  I  could  be  His  child  while  so  unable  to 
say,  Thy  will  be  done.  If  you  had  said,  4  Why 
yes,  you  must  be  His  child,  for  you  professed  your 
self  one  a  long  time  ago,  and  ever  since  have  lived 
like  one/  I  should  have  remained  as  wretched 
as  ever.  As  it  is,  a  mountain  has  been  rolled  oil' 
my  heart.  Yes,  if  I  was  not  His  child  yesterday, 
I  can  become  one  to-day;  if  I  did  not  love  Him 
then,  I  can  begin  now. " 

I  do  not  doubt  that  she  was  His  child,  yesterday, 
and  last  year,  and  years  ago.  But  let  her  think 
what  she  pleases.  A  new  life  is  opening  before  her ; 
I  believe  it  is  to  be  a  life  of  entire  devotion  to  God, 
and  that  out  of  her  sorrow  there  shall  spring  up  a 
wondrous  joy. 

SEPT.    2,   Sweet  Briar  Farm. — Ernest   spent 

Sunday  with  us,  and  I  have  just  driven  him  to  the 
station,  and  seen  him  safely  off.  Things  have  pros 
pered  with  us  to  such  a  degree  that  he  has  been  ex 
travagant  enough  to  give  me  the  use,  for  the  sum 
mer,  of  a  bonnie  little  nag,  and  an  antiquated  vehicle, 
and  I  have  learned  to  drive.  To  be  sure  I  broke 
one  of  the  shafts  of  the  poor  old  thing  the  first  time 
I  ventured  forth  alone,  and  the  other  day  nearly  up 
set  ray  cargo  of  children  in  a  pond  where  I  waa 
silly  enough  to  undertake  to  water  my  horse  But 
Ernest,  as  usual,  had  patience  with  me,  and  begged 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  399 

me  to  spend  as  much  time  as  possible  in  driving 
about  with  the  children.  It  is  a  new  experience, 
and  1  enjoy  it  quite  as  much  as  he  hoped  I  should. 
Helen  is  not  with  us;  she  has  spent  the  whole  sum 
mer  with  Martha;  for  Martha,  poor  thing,  is  suf 
fering  terribly  from  rheumatism  and  is  almost  entire 
ly  helpless.  I  am  so  sorry  for  her,  after  so  many 
years  of  vigorous  health,  how  hard  it  must  be  to 
endure  this  pain.  With  this  drawback  we  have 
had  a  delightful  summer;  not  one  sick  day  nor  one 
sick  night.  With  no  baby  to  keep  me  awake,  I 
sleep  straight  through,  as  Kaymond  says,  and  wake 
in  the  morning  refreshed  and  cheerful.  We  shall 
have  to  go  home  soon;  how  cruel  it  seems  to  bring 
up  children  in  a  great  city  ?  Yet  what  can  be  done 
about  it?  Wherever  there  are  men  and  women 
there  must  be  children;  what  a  howling  wilderness 
either  city  or  country  would  be  without  them  ! 

The  only  drawback  on  my  felicity  is  the  separa 
tion  from  Ernest,  which  becomes  more  painful  every 
year  to  us  both.  God  has  blessed  our  married  life; 
it  has  had  its  waves  and  its  billows,  but,  thanks  be 
unto  Him,  it  has  at  last  settled  down  into  a  calm 
sea  of  untroubled  peace.  While  I  was  secretly  up 
braiding  my  dear  husband  for  giving  so  much  at 
tention  to  his  profession  as  to  neglect  me  and  my 
children,  he  was  becoming,  every  day,  more  the 
ideal  of  a  physician,  cool,  calm,  thoughtful,  studi- 


400  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

oue,  ready  to  sacrifice  his  life  at  any  moment  in  the 
interests  of  humanity.  How  often  I  have  mistaken 
his  preoccupied  air  for  indifference;  how  many 
times  I  have  inwardly  accused  him  of  coldness, 
A'liOD  his  whole  heart  and  soul  were  filled  with  tho 
grave  problem  of  life,  aye,  and  of  death  likewise ! 

But  we  understand  each  other  now,  and  I  amj 
sure  that  God  dealt  wisely  and  kindly  with  us  when 
He  brought  together  two  such  opposite  natures. 
No  man  of  my  vehement  nature  could  have  borne 
with  me  as  Ernest  has  done,  and  if  he  had  married 
a  woman  as  calm,  as  undemonstrative  as  himself, 
what  a  strange  home  his  would  have  been  for  the 
nurture  of  little  children  ?  Bi^t  the  heart  was  in 
him,  and  only  wanted  to  be  waked  up,  and  my 
life  has  called  forth  music  from  his.  Ah,  there  are 
no  partings  and  meetings  now  that  leave  discords 
in  the  remembrance,  no  neglected  birthdays,  no  for 
gotten  courtesies !  It  is  beautiful  to  see  the  thought 
ful  brow  relax  in  presence  of  wife  and  children,  and 
to  know  that  ours  is,  at  last,  the  happy  home  J  so 
long  sighed  for.  Is  the  change  all  in  Ernest?  Is  it 
not  possible  that  I  have  grown  more  reasonable, 
less  childish  and  aggravating  ? 

We  are  at  a  farm-house;  everything  is  plain,  but 
neat  and  nice.  I  asked  Mrs.  Brown,  our  hcstcsn, 
the  other  day,  if  she  did  not  envy  me  my  four  little 
pets;  she  smiled,  said  they  were  the  best  child  row 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  401 

she  ever  saw,  and  that  it  was  well  to  have  a  family 
if  you  have  means  to  start  them  in  the  world;  foi 
her  part,  she  lived  from  hand  to  mouth  as  it  was, 
and  was  sure  she  could  never  stand  the  worry  and 
care  of  a  house  full  of  young  ones. 

"  But  the  worry  and  care  is  only  half  the  story,* 
J  said.  "The  other  half  is  pure  joy  and  delight" 

"Perhaps  so,  to  people  that  are  well-to-do,"  she 
replied;  "but  to  poor  folks,  driven  to  death  as  we 
are,  it's  another  thing.  I  was  telling  him  yesterday 
what  a  mercy  it  was  there  wasn't  any  young  ones 
round  under  my  feet,  and  I  could  take  city  boarders, 
and  help  work  off  the  mortgage  on  the  farm." 

"And  what  did  your  husband  say  to  that?" 

"Well,  he  said  we  were  young  and  hearty,  and 
there  was  no  such  tearing  hurry  about  the  mort 
gage,  and  that  he'd  give  his  right  hand  to  have  a 
couple  of  boys  like  yours." 

"Well?" 

"  Why,  I  said  supposing  we  had  a  couple  of  boys, 
they  wouldn't  be  like  yours,  dressed  to  look  gen 
teel  and  to  have  their  genteel  ways;  but  a  pair  of 
wild  colts,  into  everything,  tearing  their  clothes  off 
their  backs,  and  wasting  faster  than  we  could  earn, 
ITe  said  'twasu't  the  clothes,  'twas  the  flesh  and 
Mood  he  wanted,  and  'twasn't  no  use  to  argufy 
about  it;  a  man  that  hadn't  got  any  children  wasn't 
mor'n  half  a  man.  'Well,'  says  I,  'supposing  you 


402  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

had  a  pack  of  'em,  what  have  you  got  to  give 
em?'  'Jest  exactly  what  my  father  and  mother 
gave  me,'  says  he;  'two  hands  to  earn  their  bread 
with,  and  a  welcome  you  could  have  heard  from 
Dan  to  Beersheba.'" 

"  I  like  to  heai  that ! "  I  said.  "  And  I  hope  many 
such  welcomes  will  resound  in  this  house.  Suppose 
money  does  come  in  while  little  goes  out;  suppose 
you  get  possession  of  the  whole  farm;  what  then? 
Who  will  enjoy  it  with  you?  Who  will  you  leave 
it  to  when  you  die  ?  And  in  your  old  age  who  will 
care  for  you?" 

"You  seem  awful  earnest,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  am  in  earnest.  I  want  to  see  little  chil 
dren  adorning  every  home,  as  flowers  adorn  every 
meadow  and  every  way-side.  I  want  to  see  them 
welcomed  to  the  homes  they  enter,  to  see  their 
parents  grow  less  and  less  selfish,  and  more  and 
more  loving,  because  they  have  come.  I  want  to 
see  God's  precious  gifts  accepted,  not  frowned 
upon  and  refused." 

Mr.  Brown  came  in,  so  I  could  say  no  more. 
But  my  heart  warmed  towards  him,  as  I  looked  at 
his  frank,  good-humored  face,  and  I  should  have 
been  glad  to  give  him  the  right  hand  of  fellowship. 
As  it  was,  I  could  only  say  a  word  or  two  about 
the  beauty  of  his  farm,  and  the  scenery  of  this 
whole  region, 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  403 

"Yes,"  he  said,  gratified  that  I  appreciated  hie 
fields  and  groves,  "it  is  a  tormented  pretty-laying 
farm.  Part  of  it  was  her  father's,  and  part  of  it 
was  my  father's;  there  ain't  another  like  it  in  the 
country.  As  to  the  scenery,  I  don't  know  as  I  ever 
looked  at  it;  city  folks  talk  a  good  deal  about  it,  but 
tney've  nothing  to  do  but  look  round."  Walter 
came  trotting  in  on  two  bare,  white  feet,  and  with 
his  shoes  in  his  hand.  He  had  had  his  nap,  felt  as 
bright  and  fresh  as  he  looked  rosy,  and  I  did  not 
wonder  at  Mr.  Brown's  catching  him  up  and  clasp 
ing  his  sunburnt  arms  about  the  little  fellow,  and 
pressing  him  against  the  warm  heart  that  yearned 
for  nestlings  of  its  own. 

SEPT.  23. — Home  again,  and  full  of  the 

thousand  cares  that  follow  the  summer  and  precede 
the  winter.  But  let  mothers  and  wives  fret  as  they 
will,  they  enjoy  these  labors  of  love,  and  would  feel 
lost  without  them.  For  what  amount  of  leisure, 
ease,  and  comfort,  would  I  exchange  husband  and 
children  and  this  busy  home? 

Martha  is  better,  and  Helen  has  come  back  to  us. 
I  dont  know  how  we  have  lived  without  her  so 
long.  Her  life  seems  necessary  to  the  comple 
tion  of  every  one  of  ours  Some  others  have 
fancied  it  necessary  to  the  completion  of  theirs,  bui 
she  has  not  agreed  with  them.  We  are  glad  enough 


404  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

to  keep  her,  and  yet  I  hope  the  day  will  come  wher 
she,  so  worthy  of  it,  will  taste  the  sweet  joys  of 
wifehood  and  motherhood. 

JANUARY  1,  1853. — It  is  not  always  so  easy 

to  practice,  as  it  is  to  preach.  I  can  see  in  my 
wisdom,  forty  reasons  for  having  four  children  and 
no  more.  The  comfort  of  sleeping  in  peace,  of 
having  a  little  time  to  read,  and  to  keep  on  with  my 
music;  strength  with  which  to  look  after  Ernest's 
poor  people  when  they  are  sick;  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  strength  to  be  bright  and  fresh  and  lovable 
to  him — all  these  little  joys  have  been  growing 
very  precious  to  me,  and  now  I  must  give  them  up. 
I  want  to  do  it  cheerfully  and  without  a  frown. 
But  I  find  I  love  to  fhave  my  own  way,  and  that  at 
the  very  moment  I  was  asking  God  to  appoint  my 
work  for  me,  I  was  secretly  marking  it  out  for  my 
self.  It  is  mortifying  to  find  my  will  less  in 
barinony  with  His  than  I  thought  it  was,  and  that 
I  want  to  prescribe  to  Him  how  I  shall  spend  the 
Kro«,  and  the  health  and  the  strength  which  are 
His,  not  mine.  But  I  will  not  rest  till  this  struggle 
is  over;  till  I  can  say  with  a  smile,  "Not  my  will  I 
Not  my  will!  But  Thine!" 

We  have  been,  this  winter,  one  of  the  happiest 
families  on  earth.  Our  love  to  each  other,  Ernest's 
and  mine,  though  not  perfect — nothing  on  earth  is — 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  405 

has  grown  less  selfish,  mere  Christ-like;  it  has  be«n 
sanctified  by  prayer  and  by  the  sorrows  we  have 
borne  together.  Then  the  children  have  been  well 
and  happy,  and  the  source  of  almost  unmitigated 
joy  and  comfort.  And  Helen's  presence  in  this 
home,  her  sisterly  affection,  her  patience  with  tho 
children  and  her  influence  over  them,  is  a  benedic 
tion  lor  which  I  cannot  be  thankful  enough.  How 
delightful  it  is  to  have  a  sister!  I  think  it  is  not 
often  the  case  that  own  sisters  have  such  perfect 
Christian  sympathy  with  each  other  as  we  have. 
Ever  since  the  day  she  ceased  to  torment  herself 
with  the  fear  that  she  was  not  a  child  of  God,  and 
laid  aside  the  somber  garments  she  had  worn  so 
long,  she  has  had  a  peace  that  has  hardly  known 
a  cloud.  She  says,  in  a  note  written  me  about  the 
time: 

"  I  want  you  to  know,  my  darling  sister,  that  the 
despondency  that  made  my  affliction  so  hard  to 
bear,  fled  before  those  words  of  yours,  which,  as  I 
have  already  told  you,  God  taught  you  to  speak.  I 
do  not  know  whether  I  was  really  His  child,  at  the 
time,  or  not.  I  had  certainly  had  an  experience 
very  different  from  yours;  prayer  had  never  been 
much  more  to  me  than  a  duty;  and  I  had  never 
felt  the  sweetness  of  that  harmony  between  God 
and  the  human  soul,  that  I  now  know  can  take 
away  all  the  bitterness  from  the  cup  of  sorrow.  I 


406  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

knew— -who  can  help  knowing  it,  that  reads  God'd 
word?  —  that  He  required  submission  from  Ilia 
children  and  that  His  children  gave  it,  no  matter 
what  it  cost.  The  Bible  is  full  of  beautiful  expres 
sions  of  it;  so  are  our  hymns;  so  are  the  written 
lives  of  all  good  men  and  good  women;  and  I  have 
seen  it  in  you,  my  dear  Katy,  at  the  very  moment 
you  were  accusing  yourself  of  the  want  of  it. 
Entire  oneness  of  the  will  with  the  Divine  Will, 
seemed  to  me  to  be  the  law  and  the  gospel  of  the 
Christian  life;  and  this  evidence  of  a  renewed 
nature  I  found  wanting  in  myself.  At  any  moment 
during  *,he  three  years  following  James'  death,  I 
would  have  snatched  him  away  from  God,  if  I 
could;  I  was  miserably  lonely  and  desolate  with 
out  him,  not  merely  because  he  had  been  so  much 
to  me,  but  because  his  loss  revealed  to  me  the  dis 
tance  between  Christ  and  my  soul.  All  I  could  do 
was  to  go  on  praying,  year  after  year,  in  a  dreary, 
hopeless  way,  that  I  might  learn  to  say,  as  David 
did,  'I  opened  not  my  mouth  because  Thou  didst 
it  When  you  suggested  that  instead  of  trying  to 
find  out  whether  I  had  loved  God  I  should  begin 
to  love  Him  now,  light  broke  in  upon  my  soul;  1 
gave  myself  to  Him  that  instant;  and  as  soon  as  I 
could  get  away  by  myself  I  fell  upon  my  knees, 
and  gave  myself  up  to  the  sense  of  His  sovereignty 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  Then,  too,  T  looked  at 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  407 

my  'light  affliction/  and  at  the  'weight  of  glory 
side  by  side,  and  thanked  Him  that  through  the  one 
He  had  revealed  to  me  the  other.  Katy,  I  know  the 
human  heart  is  deceitful  above  all  things,  but  I 
think  it  would  be  a  dishonor  to  God,  to  doubt  that 
He  then  revealed  Himself  to  me  as  He  doth  not  to 
the  world,  and  that  the  sweet  peace  I  then  found  in 
yielding  to  Him,  will  be  more  or  less  mine  so  long 
as  I  live.  Oh,  if  all  sufferers  could  learn  what 
I  have  learned !  That  every  broken  heart  could  oe 
healed  as  mine  has  been  healed!  My  precious 
sister,  cannot  we  make  this  one  part  of  our  mission 
on  earth,  to  pray  for  every  sor  o w-stricken  soul, 
and  whenever  we  have  influence  over  such,  to  lead 
it  to  honor  God  by  instant  obedience  to  His  will, 
whatever  that  will  may  be?  I  have  dishonored 
Him  by  years  of  rebellious,  carefully  nursed  sorrow ; 
I  want  to  honor  Him  now  by  years  of  resignation 
and  grateful  joy." 

Reading  this  letter  over  in  my  present  mood  has 
done  me  good.  More  beautiful  faith  in  God  than 
Helen's  I  have  never  seen;  let  me  have  it,  too. 
May  this  prayer,  which,  under  the  inspiration  of  the 
moment,  I  can  offer  without  a  misgiving,  become 
the  habitual,  deep-seated  desire  of  my  soul. 

"Bring  into  captivity  every  thought  to  the 
obedience  of,  Christ.  Take  what  I  cannot  give: 
my  heart>  body,  thoughts,  time,  abilities,  money, 


408  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

health,  strength,  nights,  days,  youth,  age,  and  spend 
them  in  Thy  service,  0  my  crucified  Master,  Re 
deemer,  God.  Oh,  let  not  these  be  mere  words! 
Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but  Thee?  and  there  is 
none  upon  earth  that  I  desire  in  comparison  of 
Thee.  My  heart  is  athirst  for  God,  for  the  living 
God.  When  shall  I  come  and  appear  before  God  ? '' 


XXVII. 


AUOUBT  1. 

HAVE  just  written  to  Mrs.  Brown  to 
know  whether  she  will  take  us  for  the  lest 
of  the  summer.  A  certain  little  man,  not 
a  very  old  little  man,  either,  has  kept  ua 
in  town  till  now.  Since  he  has  come,  we  are  all 
very  glad  of  him,  though  he  came  on  his  own  invi 
tation,  brought  no  wardrobe  with  him,  does  not  pay 
for  his  board,  never  speaks  a  word,  takes  no  notice 
of  us,  and  wants  more  waiting  on  than  any  one  else 
in  the  house.  The  children  are  full  of  delicious 
curiosity  about  him,  and  overwhelm  him  witK 
presents  of  the  most  heterogeneous  character. 

Sweet  Briar  Farm,  AUG    9. — We  got  there 

this  afternoon,  bag  and  baggage.  I  had  not  said  a 
word  to  Mrs.  Brown  about  the  addition  to  our 
family  circle,  knowing  she  had  plenty  of  room,  and 
as  we  alighted  from  the  carriage,  I  snatched  my 
baby  f;om  his  nurse's  arms  and  ran  gayly  up  the 
walk  with  him  in  mine.  "If  this  splendid  fellow 
18  (409) 


410  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

doesn't  convert  her  nothing  will,"  I  said  to  mysel£ 
At  that  instant  what  should  I  see  but  Mrs.  Brown, 
running  to  meet  me  with  a  boy  in  her  arms  exactly 
like  Mr.  Brown,  only  not  quite  six  feet  long,  and 
not  yet  sun-burnt. 

"  There ! "  I  cried,  holding  up  my  little  old  man. 

"  There !  "  said  she,  holding  up  hers. 

We  laughed  till  we  cried;  she  took  my  baby  and 
I  took  hers;  after  looking  at  him  I  liked  mine 
better  than  ever;  after  looking  at  mine  she  was 
perfectly  satisfied  with  hers. 

We  got  into  the  house  at  last;  that  is  to  say,  we 
mothers  did;  the  children  darted  through  it  and 
out  of  the  door  that  led  to  the  fields  and  woods, 
and  vanished  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Mrs.  Brown  had  always  been  a  pretty  woman, 
with  bright  eyes,  shining,  well-kept  hair,  and  a 
color  in  her  cheeks  like  the  rose  which  had  given 
its  name  to  her  farm.  But  there  was  now  a  new 
beauty  in  her  face;  the  mysterious  and  sacred 
sufferings  and  joys  of  maternity  had  given  it 
thought  and  feeling. 

"I  had  no  idea  I  should  be  so  fond  of  a  baby," 
she  said,  kissing  it,  whenever  she  stopped  to  put  in 
Q  comma ;  "  but  I  don't  know  how  I  ever  got  along 
without  one.  He's  off  at  work  nearly  the  whole 
day,  and  when  I  had  got  through  with  mine,  and 
had  put  on  my  afternoon  dress,  and  was  ready  to  sit 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  411 

down,  you  can't  think  how  lonesome  it  was,  But 
now,  by  the  time  I  am  dressed,  baby  is  ready  to  go 
out  to  get  the  air;  he  knows  the  minute  he  sees 
me  bring  out  his  little  hat  that  he  is  going  to 
gee  his  father,  and  he's  awful  fond  of  his  father. 
Though  that  isn't  so  strange,  either,  for  his  father's 
awful  fond  of  him.  All  his  little  ways  are  so 
pretty,  and  he  never  cries  unless  he's  hungry  or 
tired.  Tell  mother  a  pretty  story  now;  yes,  mo 
ther  hears,  bless  his  little  heart ! " 

Then  when  Mr.  Brown  came  home  to  his  supper, 
his  face  was  a  sight  to  see,  as  he  caught  sight  of  me 
at  my  open  window,  and  came  to  it  with  the  child's 
white  arms  clinging  to  his  neck,  looking  as  happy 
and  as  bashful  as  a  girl. 

You  see  she  must  needs  go  to  quartering  this 
oouncing  young  one  on  to  me,"  he  said,  "as  if  I 
didn't  have  to  work  hard  enough  before.  Well, 
maybe  he'll  get  his  feed  off  the  farm;  we'll  see 
what  we  can  do." 

"Mamma,"  Una  whispered,  as  he  went  off  with 
his  fac-simile,  to  kiss  it  rapturously,  behind  a  wood 
pile,  "  do  you  think  Mrs.  Brown's  baby  very  pretty  ?  " 

Which  was  so  mild  a  way  of  suggesting  the 
fact  of  the  case,  that  I  kissed  her  without  trying  to 
hide  my  amusement. 

AUG.    10. — After   being   cooped   up   in   towu 


412  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

so  large  a  part  of  the  summer,  the  children  are 
nearly  wild  with  delight  at  being  in  the  country 
once  more.  Even  our  demure  Una  skips  about 
with  a  buoyancy  I  have  never  seen  in  her;  she 
never  has  her  ill  turns  when  out  of  the  city,  and  I 
wish,  for  her  sake,  that  we  could  always  live  here. 
As  to  Raymond  and  Walter  I  never  pretend  to  see 
them  except  at  their  meals  and  their  bed  time ; 
they  just  live  out  of  doors,  following  the  men  at 
their  work,  asking  all  sorts  of  absurd  questions, 
which  Mr.  Brown  reports  to  me  every  night,  with 
shouts  of  delighted  laughter.  Two  gay  and  glad 
some  boys  they  are;  really  good  without  being 
priggish;  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  that.  People 
ask  me  how  it  happens  that  my  children  are  all  so 
promptly  obedient  and  so  happy.  As  if  it  chanced 
that  some  parents  have  such  children,  or  chanced 
that  some  have  not !  I  am  afraid  it  is  only  too  true, 
as  some  one  has  remarked,  that  "  this  is  the  age  of 
obedient  parents!"  What  then  will  be  the  future 
of  their  children?  How  can  they  yield  to  God 
who  have  never  been  taught  to  yield  to  human 
authority?  And  how  well  fitted  will  they  be  to 
rule  their  own  households  who  have  never  learned 
to  rule  themselves? 

AUG.  31. — This  has  been  one  of  those  cold, 

dismal,  rainy  days  which  are  not  unfrequent  during 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  413 

the  month  ol  August.  So  the  children  have  been 
obliged  to  give  up  the  open  air,  of  which  they  are 
so  fond,  and  fall  back  upon  what  entertainment 
could  be  found  within  the  house.  I  have  read  to 
them  the  little  journal  I  kept  during  the  whole  life 
of  the  brother  I  am  not  willing  they  should  forget 
His  quaint  and  sagacious  sayings  were  delicious 
to  them;  the  history  of  his  first  steps,  his  first 
words  sounded  to  them  like  a  fairy  tale.  And  the 
story  of  his  last  steps,  his  last  words  on  earth, 
had  for  them  such  a  tender  charm,  that  there  was 
a  cry  of  disappointment  from  them  all,  when  I 
closed  the  little  book,  and  told  them  we  should 
have  to  wait  till  we  got  to  heaven  before  we  could 
know  any  thing  more  about  his  precious  life. 

How  thankful  I  am  that  I  kept  this  journal,  and 
tVat  I  have  almost  as  charming  ones  about  most  of 
my  other  children !  What  I  speedily  forgot,  amid 
the  pressure  of  cares  and  of  new  events,  is  safely 
written  down,  and  will  be  the  source  of  endless 
pleasure  to  them  long  after  the  hand  that  wrote  has 
coased  from  its  labors,  and, lies  inactive  and  at  rest 

Ah,  it  is  a  blessed  thing  to  be  a  mother ! 

SEPTEMBER  1. — This  baby  of  mine  is  cer 
tainly  the  sweetest  and  best  I  ever  had.  I  feel  an 
inexpressible  tenderness  for  it  which  I  cannot  quite 
explain  to  myself,  for  I  have  loved  them  all  dearly. 


114  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

most  dearly.  Perhaps  it  is  so  with  ail  mothers, 
perhups  they  all  grow  more  loving,  more  forbear 
ing,  more  patient  as  they  grow  older,  and  yearn 
over  these  helpless  little  ones  with  an  ever  increas 
ing,  yet  chastened  delight.  One  cannot  help  shel 
tering  their  tender  infancy,  who  will  so  soon  pass 
forth  to  fight  the  battle  of  life,  each  one  waging  an 
invisible  warfare  against  invisible  foes.  How  thank 
fully  we  would  fight  it  for  them,  if  we  might ! 

SEPTEMBER    20. — The    mornings    and    even 
ings  are   very   cool   now,   while   in   the   middle   of 
the  day  it  is  quite  hot.     Ernest  comes  to  see  us  very 
often,    under  the   pretense   that  he   can't   trust   me 
with    so    young    a    baby!     He    is    so    tender    and 
thoughtful,  and  spoils  me  so,  that  this  world  is  very 
bright  to  me;   I  am  a  little  jealous   of  it;  I  don't 
want  to  be  so  happy  in  Ernest,  or  in  my  children, 
as  to  forget  for  one  instant  that  I  am  a  pilgrim  and 
a  stranger  on  earth. 

EVENING. — There  "is  no  danger  that  I  shall. 

Ernest  suddenly  made  his  appearance  to-night,  and 
in  a  great  burst  rf  distress  quite  unlike  anything  1 
ever  saw  in  him,  revealed  to  me  that  he  had  been 
feeling  the  greatest  anxiety  about  me  ever  since  the 
baby   came.     It    is    all    nonsense.     I    cough,    to   be 
sure ;  but  that  is  owing  to  the  varying  temperature 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  415 

we  always  have  at  this  season.  I  shall  get  over  it 
as  soon  we  get  home,  I  dare  say. 

But  suppose  I  should  not;  what  then?  Could  I 
leave  this  precious  little  flock,  uncared  for,  untend- 
ed?  Have  I  faith  to  believe  that  if  God  calls  me 
away  from  them,  it  will  be  in  love  to  them  ?  I  do  not 
know.  The  thought  of  getting  away  from  the  sin 
that  still  so  easily  besets  me,  is  very  delightful,  and 
I  have  enjoyed  so  many,  many  such  foretastes  of  the 
bliss  of  heaven  that  I  know  I  should  be  happy  there  ; 
but  then,  my  children,  all  of  them  under  twelve 
years  old!  I  will  not  choose,  I  dare  not. 

My  married  life  has  been  a  beautiful  one.  It  is 
true  that  sin  and  folly,  and  sickness  and  sorrow, 
have  marred  its  perfection,  but  it  has  been  adorned 
by  a  love  which  has  never  faltered.  My  faults  have 
never  alienated  Ernest;  his  faults,  for  like  other 
human  beings  he  has  them,  have  never  overcome 
my  love  to  him.  This  has  been  the  gift  of  God  in 
answer  to  our  constant  prayer,  that  whatever  other 
bereavement  we  might  have  to  suffer,  we  might 
never  be  bereft  of  this  benediction.  It  has  been  the 
glad  secret  of  a  happy  marriage,  and  I  wish  I  could 
teach  it  to  every  human  being  whx>  enters  upon  a 
state  that  must  biing  with  it  the  depth  of  misery, 
or  life's  most  sacred  and  mysterious  joy. 

OCTOBER  6. — Ernest  has  let  me  stay  here  to 


416  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

see  the  autumnal  foliage  in  its  ravishing  beauty 
for  the  first,  perhaps  for  the  last,  time.  The  woods 
and  fields  and  groves  are  lighting  up  my  very  soul! 
It  seems  as  if  autumn  had  caught  the  inspiration 
and  the  glow  of  summer,  had  hidden  its  floral 
beauty,  its  gorgeous  sunsets  and  its  bow  of  promise 
in  its  heart  of  hearts,  and  was  now  flashing  it  forth 
upon  the  world  with  a  lavish  and  opulent  hand.  I 
can  hardly  tear  myself  away,  and  return  to  the 
prose  of  city  life.  But  Ernest  has  come  for  us,  and 
is  eager  to  get  us  home  before  colder  weather.  I 
laugh  at  his  anxiety  about  his  old  wife.  Why  need 
he  fancy  that  this  trifling  cough  is  not  to  give  way 
as  it  often  has  done  before  ?  Dear  Ernest !  I  never 
knew  that  he  loved  me  so. 

OCTOBER  31. — Ernest's  fear  that  he  had  let 

me  stay  too  long  in  the  country  does  not  seem  to 
be  justified.  We  went  so  late  that  I  wanted  to  in 
dulge  the  children  by  staying  late.  So  we  have 
only  just  got  home.  I  feel  about  as  well  as  usual; 
it  is  true  I  have  a  little  soreness  about  the  chest, 
but  it  does  not  signify  anything. 

I  never  was  so  happy  in  my  husband  and  children, 
in  other  words,  in  my  Aorae,  as  I  am  now.  Life 
looks  very  attractive.  I  am  glad  that  1  am  going 
to  get  well. 

But  Ernest  watches  me  carefully,  and  wants  me, 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  41? 

as  a  precautionary  measure,  to  give  up  music,  writ 
ing,  sewing,  and  painting — the  very  things  that  oc 
cupy  me ! — and  lead  an  idle,  useless  life,  for  a  time. 
I  cannot  refuse  what  he  asks  so  tenderly,  and  as  a 
personal  favor  to  himself.  Yet  I  should  like  to  fill 
the  few  remaining  pages  of  my  journal;  I  never 
like  to  leave  things  incomplete, 

JUNE  1,  1858. — I  wrote  that  seven  years  ago, 

little  dreaming  how  long  it  would  be  before  I  should 
use  a  pen.  Seven  happy  years  ago! 

I  suppose  that  some  who  have  known  what  my 
outward  life  has  been  during  this  period,  would 
think  of  me  as  a  mere  object  of  pity.  There  has 
certainly  been  suffering  and  deprivation  enough  to 
justify  the  sympathy  of  my  dear  husband  and  chil 
dren,  and  the  large  circle  of  friends  who  have 
rallied  about  us.  How  little  we  knew  we  had  so 
many! 

God  has  dealt  very  tenderly  with  me.  I  was  not 
stricken  down  by  sudden  disease,  nor  were  the 
things  _  delighted  in  all  taken  away  at  once.  There 
was  a  gradual  loss  of  strength  and  gradual  increase 
of  suffering,  and  it  was  only  by  degrees  that  I  was 
asked  to  give  up  the  employments  in  which  I  de 
lighted,  my  household  duties,  my  visits  to  the  sick 
and  suffering,  the  society  of  beloved  friends.  Per 
haps  Ernest  perceived  and  felt  my  deprivations 
18 


418  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

Booner  than  I  did;  his  sympathy  always  seemed  tc 
out-run  my  disappointments.  When  I  compare  him, 
as  he  is  now,  with  what  he  was  when  I  first  knew 
him,  I  bless  God  for  all  the  precious  lessons  He  has 
taught  him  at  my  cost.  There  is  a  tenacity  and 
persistence  about  his  love  for  me  that  has  made 
these  years  almost  as  wearisome  to  him,  as  they 
have  been  to  me.  As  to  myself,  if  I  had  been  told 
what  I  was  to  learn  through  these  protracted  suffer 
ings,  I  am  afraid  I  should  have  shrunk  back  in  ter 
ror,  and  so  have  lost  all  the  sweet  lessons  God  pro 
posed  to  teach  me.  As  it  is,  He  has  led  me  on,  step 
by  step,  answering  my  prayers  in  His  own  waj ; 
and  I  cannot  bear  to  have  a  single  human  being 
doubt  that  it  has  been  a  perfect  way.  I  love  and 
adore  it  just  as  it  is. 

Perhaps  suspense  has  been  one  of  the  most  try 
ing  features  of  my  case.  Just  as  I  have  unclasped 
my  hand  from  rny  dear  Ernest's;  just  as  I  have  let 
go  my  almost  frantic  hold  of  my  darling  children; 
just  as  heaven  opened  before  me,  and  I  fancied  my 
weariness  over  and  my  wanderings  done;  just  then 
almost  every  alarming  symptom  would  disappear, 
and  life  recall  me  from  the  threshold  of  heaven 
itself.  Thus  I  have  been  emptied  from  vessel  io 
vessel,  till  I  have  learned  that  he  only  is  truly  happy 
who  has  no  longer  a  choice  of  his  own,  and  lies 
passive  in  God's  hand. 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  419 

Even  now,  no  one  can  foretell  the  issue  of  thia 
sickness.  We  live  a  day  at  a  time,  not  knowing 
what  shall  be  on  the  morrow.  But  whether  I  live  or 
die,  my  happiness  is  secure,  ard  so,  I  believe,  is 
that  of  my  beloved  ones.  This  is  a  true  picture  of 
our  home: 

A  sick-room  full  of  the  suffering  that  ravages  the 
body,  but  cannot  touch  the  soul.  A  worn,  wasting 
mother  ministered  unto  by  a  devoted,  saintly  hus 
band,  and  by  unselfish,  Christian  children.  Some 
of  the  peace  of  God,  if  not  all  of  it,  shines  in  every 
face,  is  heard  in  every  tone.  It  is  a  home  that 
typifies  and  foreshadows  the  home  that  is  perfect 
and  eternal. 

Our  dear  Helen  has  been  given  us  for  this  emer 
gency.  Is  it  not  strange  that  seeing  our  domestic 
life  should  have  awakened  in  her  some  yearnings  for 
a  home  and  a  heart  and  children  of  her  own.  She 
has  said  that  there  was  a  weary  point  in  her  life 
when  she  made  up  her  mind  that  she  was  never  to 
know  these  joys.  But  she  accepted  her  lot  grace 
fully.  I  do  not  know  any  other  word  that  de 
scribes  so  well  the  beautiful  offering  she  made  of  her 
life,  first  to  God,  and  then  to  us.  He  accepted  it, 
ftnd  has  given  her  all  the  cares  and  responsibilities 
of  domestic  life,  without  the  transcendent  joys  that 
sustain  the  wife  and  the  mother.  She  has  been  all 
in  all  to  our  children,  and  God  has  been  all  in  all  to 


4*20  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

her.  And  she  is  happy  in  His  service  and  in  otu 
love. 

JUNE  13. — It  took  me  nearly  two  weeks  to 

write  the  above,  at  intervals,  as  my  strength 
allowed.  Ernest  has  consented  to  my  finishing  this 
volume,  of  which  so  few  pages  yet  remain.  And 
he  let  me  see  a  dear  old  friend  who  came  all  the 
way  from  my  native  town  to  see  me — Dr.  Eaton, 
our  family  physician  as  long  as  I  could  remember. 
He  is  of  an  advanced  age,  but  full  of  vigor,  his  eye 
bright  and  with  a  healthful  glow  on  his  cheek.  But 
he  says  he  is  waiting  and  longing  for  his  summons 
home.  About  that  home  we  had  a  delightful  talk 
together  that  did  my  very  heart  good.  Then  ho 
made  me  tell  him  about  this  long  sickness  and  the 
years  of  frail  health  and  some  of  the  sorrows 
through  which  I  had  toiled. 

"Ah,  these  lovely  children  are  explained  now," 
he  said. 

"Do  you  really  think,"  I  asked,  "that  it  has  beet) 
good  for  my  children  to  have  a  feeble,  afflicted 
mother?" 

"Yes,  I  really  think  so.  A  disciplined  mother  — 
disciplined  children." 

This  comforting  thought  is  one  of  the  last  drops 
in  a  cup  of  felicity  already  full 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  421 

—  JUNE  20. — Another  Sunday,  and  all  at 
church  except  my  darling  Una,  who  keeps  watch 
over  her  mother.  These  Sundays,  when  I  have 
had  them  each  alone  in  turn,  have  been  blessed 
days  to  them  and  to  me.  Surely  this  is  some  com 
pensation  for  what  they  lose  in  me  of  health  and 
vigor.  I  know  the  state  of  each  soul  as  far  as  it 
can  be  known,  and  have  every  reason  to  believe 
that  my  children  all  love  my  Saviour  and  are  trying 
to  live  for  Him.  I  have  learned,  at  last,  not  to 
despise  the  day  of  small  things,  to  cherish  the 
tenderest  blossom,  and  to  expect  my  dear  ones  to 
be  imperfect  before  they  become  perfect  Christians. 

Una  is  a  sweet,  composed  young  girl,  now 
eighteen  years  old,  and  what  can  I  say  more  of  the 
love  her  brothers  bear  her,  than  this:  they  never 
tease  her.  She  has  long  ceased  asking  why  she 
must  have  delicate  health  when  so  many  others  of 
her  age  are  full  of  animal  life  and  vigor,  but  stands 
in  her  lot  and  place,  doing  what  she  can,  suffering 
what  she  must,  with  a  meekness  that  makes  her 
lovely  in  my  eyes,  and  that  I  am  sure  unites  her 
closely  to  Christ 

JUNE  27. — It  was  Raymond's  turn  to  stay 

with  me  to-day.  He  opened  his  heart  to  me  more 
freely  than  he  had  ever  done  before. 

"  Mamma,"  he  began,  "  if  papa  is  willing,  I  have 


422  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

made  up  my  mind — that  is  to  Bay  if  I  ever  get 
decently  good — to  go  on  a  mission." 

I  said,  playfully, 

"And  mamma's  consent  is  not  to  be  asked?" 

"No,"  lie  said  getting  hold  of  what  there  is  left 
of  my  hand,  "I  know  you  wouldn't  say  a  word 
Don't  you  remember  telling  me  once,  when  I  was  a 
little  boy,  that  I  might  go  and  welcome?" 

uAnd  don't  you  remember,"  I  returned,  "that 
you  cried  for  joy,  and  then  relieved  your  mind  still 
farther,  by  walking  on  your  hands,  with  your  feet 
in  the  air?" 

We  both  laughed  heartily,  at  this  remembrance, 
and  then  I  said: 

"My  dear  boy,  you  know  your  father's  plan  for 
you?" 

"Yes,  I  know  he  expects  me  to  study  with  him, 
and  take  his  place  in  the  world." 

"And  it  is  a  very  important  place." 

His  countenance  fell,  as  he  fancied  I  was  not 
entering  heartily  into  his  wishes. 

"Dear  Kaymond,"  I  went  on,  "I  gave  you  to 
God  long  before  you  gave  yourself  to  Him.  If  H« 
can  make  yon  useful  in  your  own,  or  in  other  lands, 
I  bless  His  name.  Whether  I  live  to  see  you  a  man, 
or  not,  I  hope  you  will  work  in  the  Lord's  vineyard, 
wherever  He  calls.  I  never  asked  anything  for  you 
but  usefulness,  in  all  my  prayers  for  youj 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  423 

once.  His  eyes  filled  with  tears;  he  kissed  me, 
and  walked  away  to  the  window,  to  compose  him 
self  My  poor,  dear,  lovable,  loving  boy  I  He  has 
all  his  mother's  trials  and  struggles  to  contend 
with;  but  what  matter  it  ii  they  bring  him  the 
8am e  peace? 

JUNE  30. — Every  body  wonders  to  see  me 

once  more  interested  in  my  long-closed  journal,  and 
becoming  able  to  see  the  dear  friends  from  whom  I 
have  been,  in  a  measure,  cut  off.  We  cannot 
ask  the  meaning  of  this  remarkable  increase  of 
strength. 

I  have  no  wish  to  choose.  But  I  have  come  to 
the  last  page  of  my  Journal,  and  living  or  dying, 
shall  write  in  this  volume  no  more.  It  closes  upon 
a  life  of  much  childishness  and  great  sinfulness, 
whose  record  makes  me  blush  with  shame,  but  I 
no  longer  need  to  relieve  my  heart  with  seeking 
sympathy  in  its  unconscious  pages,  nor  do  I  believe 
it  well  to  go  on  analyzing  it  as  I  have  done.  I 
have  had  large  experience  of  both  joy  and  sorrow; 
I  have  seen  the  nakedness  and  the  emptiness,  and  I 
have  seen  the  beauty  and  sweetness  of  life.  What 
I  have  to  say  now,  let  me  say  to  Jesus.  What  time 
and  strength  I  used  to  spend  in  writing  here,  let 
me  now  spend  in  praying  for  all  men,  for  all  suf 
ferers,  for  all  who  are  out  of  the  way,  for  all  whom 


424  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD. 

I  love.  And  tlieir  name  is  Legion,  for  I  love  every 
body. 

Yes,  I  love  every  body!  That  crowning  joy  has 
come  to  me  at  last.  Christ  is  in  my  soul;  He  is 
mine;  I  am  as  conscious  of  it  as  that  my  husband 
and  children  are  mine;  and  His  Spirit  flows  forth 
from  mine  in  the  calm  peace  of  a  river,  whose  banks 
are  green  with  grass,  and  glad  with  flowers.  If  I 
die,  it  will  be  to  leave  a  wearied  and  worn  body, 
and  a  sinful  soul,  to  go  joyfully  to  be  with  Christ, 
to  weary  and  to  sin  no  more.  If  I  live,  I  shall  find 
much  blessed  work  to  do  for  Him.  So  living  or 
dying,  I  shall  be  the  Lord's. 

But  I  wish,  oh,  how  earnestly,  that  whether  I  go 
or  stay,  I  could  inspire  some  lives  with  the  joy  that 
is  now  mine.  For  many  years  I  have  been  rich  in 
faith;  rich  in  an  unfaltering  confidence  that  I  was 
beloved  of  my  God  and  Saviour.  But  something 
was  wanting;  I  was  ever  groping  for  a  mysterious 
grace  the  want  of  which  made  me  often  sorrowful 
in  the  very  midst  of  my  most  sacred  joy,  imperfect 
when  I  most  longed  for  perfection.  It  was  that 
personal  love  to  Christ  of  which  my  precious  mother 
so  often  spoke  to  me,  which  she  often  urged  me  to 
seek  upon  my  knees.  If  I  had  known  then,  as  I 
know  now,  what  this  priceless  treasure  could  be  to 
a  sinful  human  soul,  I  would  have  sold  all  that  I 
had  to  buy  the  field  wherein  it  lay  hidden.  But 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  425 

not  till  I  was  shut  up  to  prayer  and  to  the  study  of 
God's  word  by  the  loss  of  earthly  joys,  sickness 
destroying  the  flavor  of  them  all,  did  I  begin  to 
penetrate  the  mystery  that  is  learned  under  the 
cross.  And  wondrous  as  it  is.  how  simple  is  this 
mystery!  To  love  Christ,  and  to  know  that  I  love 
Him — this  is  all! 

And  when  I  entered  upon  the  sacred  yet  oft- 
times  homely  duties  of  married  life,  if  this  love  had 
been  mine,  how  would  that  life  have  been  trans 
figured!  The  petty  faults  of  my  husband  under 
which  I  chafed,  would  not  have  moved  me;  I 
should  have  welcomed  Martha  and  her  father  to  my 
home  and  made  them  happy  there;  I  should  have 
had  no  conflicts  with  my  servants,  shown  no  petu 
lance  to  my  children.  For  it  would  not  have  been 
I  who  spoke  and  acted,  but  Christ  who  lived  in  me. 

Alas !  I  have  had  less  than  seven  years  in  which 
to  atone  for  a  sinful,  wasted  past,  and  to  live  a  new 
and  a  Christ-like  life.  If  I  am  to  have  yet  more, 
thanks  be  to  Him  who  has  given  me  the  victory, 
that  life  will  be  Love.  Not  the  love  that  rests  in 
the  contemplation  and  adoration  of  its  object;  but 
the  love  that  gladdens,  sweetens,  solaces  other  lives. 

O  gifts  of  gifts  !    O  grace  of  faith  t 

My  God !  how  can  it  be 
That  Thou,  who  hast  discerning  love, 

Shouldst  give  that  gift  to  me? 


STEPPING  HEAVENWARD 

How  many  hearts  them  mightst  have  had 

More  innocent  than  mine  I 
How  many  souls  more  worthy  far 

Of  that  sweet  touch  of  Thine? 

Oh,  grace !  into  unlikeliest  hearts 

It  is  thy  boast  to  come, 
The  glory  of  Thy  light  to  find 

In  darkest  spots  a  home. 

Oh,  happy,  happy  that  I  am ! 

If  thou  canst  be,  O  faith, 
The  treasure  that  thou  art  in  life 

What  wilt  thou  be  in  death  \ 


3? 


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655  Prentiss,  Elizabeth 

1878. 


Stepping  heavenward.  By  Mrs.  E.  Prentiss  ...  New 
stereotype  ed.,  with  a  sketch  of  the  author.  New  York, 
A.  D.  F.  Randolph  &  company 


2  p.  1  ,  a-4,  x,  7-42«  p.     19—. 

Sketch  of  the  author  wanting. 
'I.  Title. 


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